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    THEATRICAL
    AND
    CIRCUS LIFE;

    OR,

    SECRETS OF THE STAGE,
    GREEN-ROOM AND SAWDUST ARENA.

    EMBRACING

    A HISTORY OF THE THEATRE FROM SHAKESPEARE'S TIME TO THE PRESENT
    DAY, AND ABOUNDING IN ANECDOTES CONCERNING THE MOST PROMINENT
    ACTORS AND ACTRESSES BEFORE THE PUBLIC; ALSO, A
    COMPLETE EXPOSITION OF THE MYSTERIES OF THE STAGE,
    SHOWING THE MANNER IN WHICH WONDERFUL SCENIC AND
    OTHER EFFECTS ARE PRODUCED; THE ORIGIN AND
    GROWTH OF NEGRO MINSTRELSY; THE MOST ASTONISHING
    TRICKS OF MODERN MAGICIANS, AND A
    HISTORY OF THE HIPPODROME, ETC., ETC.

    Illustrated with Numerous Engravings and
    Fine Colored Plates.

    BY JOHN J. JENNINGS.


    CHICAGO:
    Globe Publishing Co.
    1886.




    Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1886, by
    GLOBE PUBLISHING CO.,

    In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.




PROLOGUE.


The theatre and the circus, both sources of unlimited amusement to the
world, are also objects of the greatest interest to all who have had
even a single peep at the stage or pressed their feet even once upon
the sawdust precincts of the tented show. The tricks and illusions
that are mystifying to nine-tenths of those to whom they are presented
rarely fail to be productive of pleasure, and the performers, whether
before the foot-lights or within the circus ring, generally succeed
in so thoroughly winning the hearts of the public, that, though their
faces, when the paint is off and the atmosphere of glory has departed,
might not be recognized upon the street, their names are so fixedly
identified with the pleasant moments associated with their art, that
they become household words, and are spoken, with admiration and
praise, by all classes, from the newsboy and bootblack up through the
various strata of society even to the ruler of the nation.

In presenting this volume to the public the intention has been to bring
the player and the people into closer relations, and by revealing
the secrets of the stage and sawdust arena to show that what appears
at first to be deep mystery and to many, who are bigoted and averse
to theatrical and kindred entertainments, the blackest diabolism, is
merely the result of the simplest combinations of mechanical skill and
studied art, and is as innocent of the sinister character bestowed upon
it as are the efforts of school children at their annual exhibitions
or the exercises of a Sabbath School class before a row of drowsy and
nodding church-deacons. Fault may be found with the private lives of
numbers of the members of the theatrical and circus profession, but the
sins and shortcomings of individuals, can be visited upon the entire
class with no more justice than can the frailties of a few preachers
be applied generally to the pulpit, or the dishonesty of a handful of
lawyers be reflected upon all the disciples of Blackstone in existence.
Neither is it just to class as theatres places of resort that do
not deserve the name--the "dives" and "dens" that are frequented by
disreputable men and women whose low tastes are catered to by men and
women every bit as disreputable as their patrons. Such establishments
receive, in this volume, only the severe treatment they fully merit.

In explaining the mysteries of stage representations, and indicating
the tricks of ring performances, as well as in speaking of the private
lives of performers and giving biographies of the most noted actors
and actresses now before the public, an attempt has been made to be
perfectly accurate in every detail. The anecdotal portion of the book
has likewise received careful attention, and indeed every feature of
the work has been given due consideration, in the hope that in and out
of the profession, THEATRICAL AND CIRCUS LIFE may meet with a favorable
reception and be regarded as worthy the subjects of which it treats.
Commending it to the kindness of all into whose hands it falls; and
assuring the inhabitants of the mimic and real worlds, that, whatever
construction may be placed upon his sentences, naught but respect and
affection is felt for the true and good men and women of the stage, the
author parts from his volume regretting that it is not large enough
to give everybody a place in its pages, or to say as much about each
individual as each deserves.

    J. J. J.

ST. LOUIS, August 1, 1882.




CONTENTS.


  CHAPTER I.

  A PRELIMINARY PEEP.
                                                                   PAGES
  Admission Fees--Cerberus at the Back Door--The Awe-Stricken
    Stranger behind the Scene--Swarms of Actors and Employees--
    Description of Stage Settings--The Green-Room and Dressing-Room
    Explored--A Visit to the Dressing-Tent of the Circus--An
    Act that Beats anything of the kind in the World--The Female
    Minstrel Gang and the Break-o'-Day Girls                       19-27


  CHAPTER II.

  A THEATRE OF SHAKESPEARE'S DAY.

  Rude Carts as Primitive Stages--Followed by Stone Theatres
    with Pits for Stages--Theatres of the Elizabethan Period--
    Sunday Theatres in the "Golden Age"--Description of the Globe
    in Shakespeare's Time--Plays in the Times of Henry VIII.--
    Sign-boards as Scenes--Anecdote of Charles II.--The "Wits,"
    "Clever" Men and the Vulgar Crowd--Pipes, Tankards, and
    Gossip                                                         28-36


  CHAPTER III.

  THE AMERICAN THEATRE.

  Davy Garrick at Drury Lane, London--English Actors sail for
    America--Voyage in the Charming Sally in 1752--The First
    American Theatre--The First Programme--The First New York
    Theatre, 1753--The First Performance in Philadelphia, April,
    1754--The First Show in Boston, August, 1792--The Priest
    and the Spanish Lady--Elegant Theatres of the Present
    Period                                                         37-42


  CHAPTER IV.

  AT THE STAGE-DOOR.

  Front Door and Back Door Entrances--"Mashers" at the "Stage-Door"
    --The Cerberus who Stands Guard--Perquisites Paid to Him--
    Bulkhead and the Ballet Girls--The Tricks of the Scene Painter
    on the Girls--The Girls' Revenge--Bold and Heartless Lovers
    --Notes Pushed under the Dressing-Room Door--Alice Oates's
    Mash--Watching the Manœuvres of the "Mashers"--Tale of the
    Pink Symmetrical                                               43-54


  CHAPTER V.

  BEFORE THE FOOT-LIGHTS.

  People who Patronize the Theatre--The Young Blood--Members of
    the "Profesh"--The Giddy and Gushing Usher--The Bouncer--
    The Peanut Cruncher--The People who go out "Between Acts"--
    The Big Hat Nuisance--Anecdote of George and Harry             55-68


  CHAPTER VI.

  BEHIND THE SCENES.

  An Amateur Theatre--The Author's Experience as "Imp" in a
    Spectacular Scene--A Trip to the Moon                          69-85


  CHAPTER VII.

  IN THE DRESSING-ROOM.

  Goodwin's "Make-up" for Hobbies--Booth and Company Playing
    "Hamlet" in Street Costume--Dressing-Rooms of Old-Time and
    Present Theatres--Louis Harrison Spoils a Play at San Francisco
    --How Actors "Make up" for Various Parts--The Hair-Dresser and
    the Actress                                                   86-105


  CHAPTER VIII.

  WITHIN THE WINGS.

  The Stage Prompter and His Duties--Actors who "Stick" and some
    who "Never Stick"--A Popular Actress and her Useful Husband
    --The Firemen's Amours--Mary Anderson and Her Chewing-Gum--
    Emmet's Indiscretions                                        106-121


  CHAPTER IX.

  STAGE CHARMS AND OMENS.

  Burning of the Southern Hotel and Kate Claxton's Presence--
    Superstitions of John McCullough, Raymond, Joe Jefferson,
    Sothern, Florence, Booth, Chanfrau, Byron, Thorne, Neilson,
    Lotta, etc., etc.--Courtaine and Ince                        122-143


  CHAPTER X.

  NOT DOWN IN THE BILL.

  Actors who Memorize whole Newspapers--Lovely Peggy--Kean Dying
    as he Played--Sol. Smith's Funny Adventure--A Masher made
    Serviceable--Charlotte Cushman and the Colored Bell-Boy who
    brought Down the House--The Call-Boy's Revenge--The Lecturer,
    Trick Candle and Trap Door--An English Performance of William
    Tell                                                         144-161


  CHAPTER XI.

  THE ILLUSIONS OF THE STAGE.

  Mrs. Bellamy and Mr. St. Leger in Dublin--Rousseau's Description
    of Paris Opera--Modern Mechanism--Producing Steam, Fire,
    Thunder, Lightning, etc.--Olive Logan and her Jewels--Snow
    Storm in "The Two Orphans"--Rain in "Hearts of Oak"--Rivulets
    in "Danites"--Funny Inventory of "Property" in a London
    Theatre                                                      162-182


  CHAPTER XII.

  MORE OF THE MYSTERIES.

  The Property-Man and his Duties--Sunlight--Moonlight--
    Twinkling of Stars--Ocean Waves--Fire in "Phœnix" and
    "Streets of New York"--Full Description of the Famous Raft
    Scene                                                        183-194


  CHAPTER XIII.

  THE ARMY OF ATTACHES.

  Broken Down or "Crushed" Actors as Door-Keepers--The Treasurer of
    the Theatre--The Usher--Orchestra and Leader--Stage Manager
    --The Scenic Artist--The Stage Carpenter, Supes and Minor
    Attaches, and Last but not Least the Call-Boy                195-205


  CHAPTER XIV.

  STAGE STRUCK.

  The Young Man from Cahokia--The Box of Gags--Stage Struck Girls
    of Louisville--The College Graduate from Illinois--"The
    Warrior Bowed His Crested Head"--The "N. G." Curtain--Marie
    Dixon's Failure--Mrs. H. M. Lewis, of Charleston, Duped by
    Schwab & Rummel--Harry Russell Pseudo "Manager"--A Colored
    Troop's Curious Epistle                                      206-226


  CHAPTER XV.

  THE REHEARSAL.

  Old-Time and Present Rehearsals--Olive Logan's Description of a
    Rehearsal--Rehearsal of the _Corps de Ballet_--Appearance of
    Taglioni, Cerito, Carlotta Grisi, Lucile Grahn at Her Majesty's
    Theatre, in London                                           227-240


  CHAPTER XVI.

  CANDIDATES FOR SHORT CLOTHES.

  Advertising for Ballet Girls--Salaries Paid them--Who Apply--
    Where the Can-Can Flourishes--The Ups and Downs of a Ballet
    Girl's Life--The Nautch Dancers                              241-250


  CHAPTER XVII.

  TRAINING BALLET DANCERS.

  Interviewing Sig. J. F. Cardella--The French School Theatre La
    Scala--Amount of Practice Required--The American Ballet--
    Salaries of Premieres, Coryphees, etc.--The Time Required--A
    Little Fond and Foolish at Times                             251-263


  CHAPTER XVIII.

  PLAYS AND PLAYWRIGHTS.

  The Trials and Tribulations of the Gawky Young Dramatist--
    English, French and American Playwrights--The Desire for
    Foreign Plays--Bartley Campbell's Christmas Story            264-275


  CHAPTER XIX.

  MASHERS AND MASHING.

  Gunakophagists or Woman-Eaters--Corner Loafers--Mashers of the
    Profession--Female Mashers--The Blonde Beauties of the Leg
    Drama--Model Letter--Lillian Russell's Escapades--"Patti"
    and the Midget "Foster"--The Old Masher Squeezed--The Girl in
    Red Tights at Uhrig's Cave--Music and Mashing                276-295


  CHAPTER XX.

  THE MAIDEN AND THE TENOR.

  Ambleleg--His Soul Full of Art and Throat Full of Music--Miss
    Justaytine the Pink of Beauty and Perfection of Belleship--The
    Chorus Singer Mashed on the Maiden--The Mash Mutual--The
    Brother and Lover Mash the Tenor--Suit for $10,000 and the
    Compromise                                                   296-302


  CHAPTER XXI.

  FISHING FOR FREE PUFFS.

  A First-Class Puff in a Leadville Paper--All Anxious to Appear
    in Print--Various Ways of Puffing--Sending Photos--Diamond
    Robberies--Falling Heir to a Fortune, etc.--Minnie Palmer's
    Artless Display of Underwear--The Abbott Kiss--Catherine
    Lewis Fling--Emelie Melville's Presents to Critics--The
    Morning Buzzard and the Evening Crow                         303-314


  CHAPTER XXII.

  THE ACTRESS AND THE INTERVIEWER.

  All Performers must Meet the Interviewing Fiend--How the
    Interviewer is Received by Patti, Nilsson, Gerster, Kellogg,
    Cary, Hauk, Abbott, Bernhardt, Morris, Modjeska, Neilson,
    Anderson, Davenport, Mitchell, Lotta, and Others             315-319


  CHAPTER XXIII.

  A FEW FOOT-LIGHT FAVORITES.

  Mistress Woffington--Children as Actors and Actresses--Little
    Corinne--Debut of Emma Livry--Nell Gwynne the Fish Girl--
    Lola Montez, the Pretty Irish Girl--Adah Isaacs Menken as
    _Mazeppa_--Mary Anderson the Tragedienne--Lotta and Maggie
    Mitchell, and a Host of Others                               320-342


  CHAPTER XXIV.

  CHINESE AND JAPANESE THEATRICALS.

  Great Length of the Play--Description of a Chinese Theatre--
    The Prompter--The Audience--The Actors--The Musicians--
    Japanese Theatres--No "Reserved Seats"--Prices of Admission
    --Side Shows                                                 343-352


  CHAPTER XXV.

  OPERA AND OPERA SINGERS.

  Palmo, the Father of Italian Opera in America--Interview with
    Col. Mapleson--The Cost of Rigging a Company--What it Costs
    Every Time the Curtain is Rung Up--Mme. Grisi's Superstition--
    The Best Operas--Salaries of Singers--Neilson and the Diamond
    Merchant                                                     353-366


  CHAPTER XXVI.

  THE MINSTREL BOYS.

  Emmet, Brower, Whitlock and Pelham among the Earliest--Pot-Pie
    Herbert--Daddy Rice and Jim Crow--Zip Coon--Coal Black Rose
    --My Long Tail Blue--Early Days of George Christy--Minstrel
    Men Generally Improvident--Minstrel Men as Mashers--Haverly's
    Mastodon Minstrels--The Boys at Rehearsal                    367-381


  CHAPTER XXVII.

  PANTOMIME.

  George L. Fox, the King--G. H. Adams, his Successor--Boxing
    Night in London                                              382-388


  CHAPTER XXVIII.

  VARIETY DIVES AND CONCERT SALOONS.

  First-Class Varieties--Harry Hill's Famous Resort--Interview
    with Harry Hill--Ida and Johnnie--Deacons in a Dive--The
    Bouncer at Work--The Cow-Boy's Call for Mary--The Can-Can--
    Music by Bands--Over the Rhine                               389-415


  CHAPTER XXIX.

  A TEAM OF IRISH COMEDIANS.

  The Song and Dance Men--Harrigan & Hart--Levi McGinnis the
    Alderman                                                     416-429


  CHAPTER XXX.

  THE BLACK ART.

  Sword Swallowers--Jugglers in America, Europe, China, and
    Hindoostan--Herman Sells the Barbers--Herman Sold by the
    "Boys"--Wonderful Chinese Jugglers--How Ladies are Suspended
    in Mid-Air--How to Eat Fire--Walk on Red Hot Iron--Cut off
    a Man's Head, etc., etc.                                     430-439


  CHAPTER XXXI.

  THE INDIAN BOX AND BASKET TRICK.

  The Trick-Box--The Board--The Basket--The Magician's "Ghost
    Story"                                                       440-448


  CHAPTER XXXII.

  VENTRILOQUISM.

  Prof. Kennedy and Val Vose--Louis Brabant _Valet de Chambre_ to
    Francis I. Wins Wife and Fortune through his Wonderful Gift--M.
    St. Gille and his Wonderful Exploits--Alexandre and the Load
    of Hay--The Delusion Fully Explained--How to do it--The
    Suffocated Victim                                            449-458


  CHAPTER XXXIII.

  ON THE ROAD.

  Making Dates at the "the Square"--Copy of Contracts--Billing
    the Town--The Cyclonic Advance Agent                         459-465


  CHAPTER XXXIV.

  THE GREEN-EYED AND OTHER MONSTERS.

  The Street Arabs and Lotta--The Stage at the Beginning of the
    Eighteenth Century--Little "Accidents" of Bernhardt and
    Indiscretions of Patti--"Sudden Johnnie" and Colombier--
    Lizzie McCall's Crime--Miss Bertha Welby and Miss Cleves--The
    "Old Gray" and the Skipping Rope Dancer--Husband and Wife and
    Ballet Girl--Mephistopheles and Venus                        466-483


  CHAPTER XXXV.

  JOHN WILKES BOOTH, PRESIDENT LINCOLN'S ASSASSIN.

  Shooting of Abraham Lincoln--Booth's Rehearsal at Wallack's--
    An Old Actor's Opinion of J. W. Booth--His _Richard the III._
    a Fine Piece of Acting--Booth and Collier as _Richard_ and
    _Richmond_                                                   484-491


  CHAPTER XXXVI.

  THE SUMMER VACATION.

  How the Stars and Lesser Lights Disport Themselves--Actors at the
    Seaside--The "Old Gray" Surprises the Actors at the Banquet--
    Millions Spent upon Theatricals                              492-501


  CHAPTER XXXVII.

  FUN AMONG THE ELKS.

  Who the "Elks" are--Jughandle's Friend Wants to be an Elk--
    Getting the Candidate Ready--The High Muck-a-Muck--The
    Peculiar Circle--The Descent--The Path of Progress--The
    Upward Flight to Glory--Down! Down!! Down!!!--On "Eincycle"
    --The Merciful Net--An Elk                                   502-511


  CHAPTER XXXVIII.

  THE CIRCUS IS HERE.

  The Disengaged Canvasman's Poetry--Circus Posters--The Grand
    Parade--The $25,000 Beauty--Twelve Ponies and Forty Horses
    on a Rampage--Henry Clay Scott and his Aged Father--Sold his
    Stove to go to the Circus                                    512-521


  CHAPTER XXXIX.

  UNDER THE CANVAS.

  The Small Boy and the Circus--Beating the Show--Slack Wire and
    Balloon Performances--Donaldson's Ill-Fated Trip--Frightful
    Accident in Mexico--Circus Green-Room and Dressing-Rooms--The
    Clown--Bareback Riders and Tumblers--Merryman's Admission Fee
    --The Clown's Baby                                           522-535


  CHAPTER XL.

  ACROBATICS AND EQUESTRIANISM.

  Training Children--Olive Logan on the Circus--Trapeze
    Performers--Tight Rope Feats--Training Riders--The Leading
    Equestrienne--The Great English Rider, Miss Lily Deacon--The
    Georgia Lady's Experience--Cow-Boys Raid on the Ring         536-552


  CHAPTER XLI.

  A ROMANCE OF THE RING.

  Shadowville--Miss Nannie Florenstein, the most Wonderful Bareback
    Rider in the World--Her Cruel Taskmaster--Ned Struthers to
    the Rescue--"All's Well that Ends Well"                      553-562


  CHAPTER XLII.

  LEAPING AND TUMBLING.

  The Athlete of Ancient Rome--Grand and Lofty Tumbling of To-day
    --Double and Triple Somersaults                              563-571


  CHAPTER XLIII.

  AN ADVENTURE WITH GIANTS.

  Capt. M. V. Bates and Wife--The Tallest Couple in the World--
    The Fat Woman and the Living Skeleton--The Circassian
    Girl                                                         572-580


  CHAPTER XLIV.

  THE TATTOOED TWINS.

  The "Ad." in the Morning Paper--Capt. Costentenus--The _Modus
    Operandi_--Henneberry and the "Old Salt"--Singular Story Told
    by Henry Frumell--Tattooed by South Pacific Savages          581-589


  CHAPTER XLV.

  IN THE MENAGERIE.

  Zazel Shot out of a Cannon--The Zulus--Gen. Tom Thumb and Wife
    --Thumb and Campanini--Hugged and Kissed by an Ape--Millie
    Christine the Famous Two-Headed Lady--The Eighth Wonder of
    the World--Jocko Spoils a Comedy--Circus in Winter
    Quarters                                                     590-608




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.


                                                                   PAGE.
   FRONTISPIECE (COLORED PLATE)                                        1
   Stage of Modern Theatre                                            18
   Lotta                                                              22
   Interior of Modern Theatre                                         36
   Decorating a Scene Painter                                         47
   The "Masher"                                                       56
   The Big Hat                                                        61
   George and Harry                                                   63
   Louise Montague                                                    64
   Maud Branscombe                                                    65
   Selina Dolaro                                                      68
   John McCullough                                                    70
   Belle Howitt                                                       73
   John A. Stevens                                                    76
   Lillie West                                                        79
   PAULINE MARKHAM (COLORED PLATE)                                    80
   Adah Isaac Menken                                                  83
   Millie La Fonte                                                    85
   Ballet Girl's Dressing-Room                                        87
   Edwin Booth                                                        89
   McKee Rankin                                                       91
   The Three Villas                                                   93
   Sarah Bernhardt                                                    96
   The Late Adelaide Neilson                                          99
   Dressing an Actress' Hair                                         102
   Marie Roze                                                        105
   In the Green-Room                                                 106
   A Green-Room Tableau                                              107
   Getting their "Lines"                                             109
   Milton Nobles                                                     110
   Improving Spare Moments                                           112
   An Actress' Useful Husband                                        113
   Making Love in the Side Scenes                                    115
   M'lle Geraldine and Little Gerry                                  117
   Sobering a Comedian                                               120
   McCullough as Virginius                                           121
   Kate Claxton                                                      123
   The Late Venie Clancie                                            126
   Catherine Lewis                                                   128
   Chanfrau                                                          131
   Fanny Davenport                                                   134
   Dion Boucicault                                                   135
   Mrs. Boucicault                                                   136
   Maud Granger                                                      139
   Portia and Shylock                                                143
   Lizzie McCall                                                     145
   Pin up my Skirts                                                  148
   Annie Pixley as M'liss                                            150
   The Call Boy's Revenge                                            151
   Thos. W. Keene                                                    154
   Emma Thursby                                                      156
   Lillian Russell                                                   158
   Joe Jefferson                                                     159
   Roland Reed                                                       160
   LIZZIE WEBSTER (COLORED PLATE)                                    160
   Lawrence Barrett                                                  161
   J. K. Emmett                                                      164
   John T. Raymond                                                   166
   Katherine Rogers                                                  168
   Josephine D'Orme                                                  170
   Ferdinand and Miranda                                             173
   Lester Wallack                                                    175
   Clara Morris                                                      177
   Helen Dingeon                                                     178
   Scott-Siddons                                                     181
   John Parselle                                                     184
   Sol Smith Russell                                                 187
   Rose Coghlan                                                      189
   The Raft Scene                                                    192
   Minnie Hauk                                                       197
   Helping the Scene Painter                                         201
   The Old Woman of the Company                                      204
   The Æsthetic Drama                                                205
   Kitty Blanchard                                                   209
   Mrs. Langtry                                                      213
   Marie Prescott as Parthenia                                       217
   Mme. Fanny Janauschek                                             222
   Rose Eytinge                                                      226
   Agnes Booth                                                       230
   "Now then, Ladies and Gentlemen, all Together"                    234
   Training Ballet Dancers                                           235
   National Dances                                                   237
   MARION ELMORE (COLORED PLATE)                                     240
   Drilling for the Chorus                                           245
   The "Sucker"                                                      248
   Donna Julia's Eyes                                                253
   Oberon and Titania                                                255
   Measuring for the Costume                                         257
   M. B. Curtis                                                      260
   A Premiere before the Audience                                    262
   A Bowery "Masher"                                                 276
   Lady Macbeth                                                      278
   Working a Greeny at a Matinee                                     280
   From one of the Mashed                                            282
   Adelina Patti's "Mash"                                            287
   J. H. Haverly                                                     288
   A Monkey Spoiling a Mash                                          292
   Ambleleg                                                          295
   Serving a Writ on Fanny Davenport                                 304
   Ernesti Rossi                                                     307
   Slippers for Free Puffs                                           311
   MISS CONNOLLY (COLORED PLATE)                                     320
   Little Corinne                                                    322
   Taglioni Congratulating Emma Livry                                326
   Lotta                                                             332
   Maggie Mitchell                                                   333
   Emma Abbott                                                       334
   Called before the Curtain                                         338
   Fay Templeton                                                     342
   Chinese Theatre                                                   348
   Chinese Property Room                                             351
   Minnie Maddern                                                    352
   Crowning a Tenor                                                  356
   Patti                                                             359
   Gerster                                                           361
   George Christy                                                    370
   You are the Sort of Man I Like                                    373
   Jim Crow                                                          378
   G. H. Adams                                                       382
   Fencing Scene in Black Crock                                      390
   Mad. Theo                                                         392
   Gus Williams                                                      394
   She Tickled Him Under the Chin                                    399
   M'LLE GENEVIEVE (COLORED PLATE)                                   400
   Armado and Jaquenetta                                             402
   Laura Don                                                         404
   Benedick and Beatrice                                             405
   Materna                                                           406
   Thatcher, Primrose and West                                       407
   A "Bowery" on a Lark                                              408
   Concert Saloon Band                                               410
   Female Band                                                       411
   Female Orchestra                                                  412
   James O'Neill                                                     413
   An Ideal Masher                                                   414
   Edwin Harrigan                                                    417
   Tony Hart                                                         418
   Herman's Sell                                                     432
   The Box Trick, Fig. 1                                             440
   The Box Trick, Fig. 2                                             441
   The Box Trick, Fig. 3                                             441
   The Box Trick, Fig. 4                                             442
   The Box Trick, Fig. 5                                             443
   On the Road                                                       465
   The McCall Tragedy                                                472
   Blackmailing an Actress                                           474
   Jealousy                                                          476
   Edward Kendall                                                    478
   Out in the Cold                                                   480
   John Wilkes Booth                                                 485
   Scene from Grand Duchess                                          493
   John W. Norton                                                    496
   MARY ANDERSON (COLORED PLATE)                                     496
   A Candidate in Regalia                                            504
   Muck-a-Muck                                                       508
   The Circus World                                                  512
   Twenty-five Thousand Dollar Beauty                                517
   Adam Forepaugh                                                    520
   Beating the Circus                                                523
   W. H. Donaldson                                                   525
   Catalina Georgio's Frightful Death                                526
   Bareback Riding                                                   537
   Trapeze                                                           539
   Mdme. Lasalle                                                     542
   ANNIE LIVINGSTONE (COLORED PLATE)                                 545
   Circus Riders                                                     546
   Dan Rice                                                          550
   A Human Pyramid                                                   562
   Leaping                                                           565
   Bicycle Riding                                                    571
   Giant and Giantess                                           579, 580
   Performing Elephants                                              596
   Jumbo                                                             599
   Curtain                                                           608

[Illustration: STAGE OF A MODERN THEATRE.]




CHAPTER I.

A PRELIMINARY PEEP.


Anybody can get into the auditorium of a theatre by paying an admission
fee reaching from twenty-five cents up to $1.50, and the sawdust
precincts of the circus may be penetrated for the modest sum of fifty
cents; but behind the curtain of the theatre and beyond the screened
door through which circus attractions enter the exhibition arena, are
sacred places, with secrets that are so valuable to their owners that
they dare not for less than a small fortune allow the public to view
or even to understand them. A general knowledge of the simplicity
of theatrical and circus tricks--of the delusions that make up the
stock in trade of showmen generally--would destroy their value as
salable articles, and make everybody a little Barnum or Jack Haverly
of his own, with ability to furnish himself with amusement at home,
while the former mastodonic managers could only look on and weep at
the educational facilities with which the country was overrun, and
mourn the Shakespearian days when people were easily pleased with the
poverty-ridden stage and bare representations that were offered them.
But there is no fear that the public will ever be instructed up to
such a high degree in regard to the inside workings of the theatre and
circus, that there will not at all times be plenty of patrons for both
these excellent forms of entertainment. The managers take good care
to keep their secrets to themselves, as those who go prying around the
shrines in which the theatric arcana are held, very soon find out.
At the back door of every theatre--the entrance to the stage--is a
cerberus of the most pronounced kind, who would sooner bite his own
grandfather's ear off than allow anybody not entitled to the privilege,
to pass him; while at the door of the circus dressing-room and all
around it are faithful sentinels who will listen to no password, and
through whose ranks it is as impossible to break as it is for the
fat boy in the side show to throw a double somersault over seventeen
horses, with an elephant as big as Jumbo at the far end of the line.
It will, however, be the proud privilege of the readers of this book
to get as close to the secrets of the stage and sawdust arena as one
can well do without knowing absolutely all about them, and by the time
the last page is read and the volume is ready to be closed, I think the
readers will be both delighted and astonished with the revelations that
have been made.

Turn the average man loose on the stage of a theatre at night, while a
play is going on, and it is a Russian kobol against a whole San Juan
mining district that he will not know whether he has struck the seventh
circle of heaven or is in a lunatic asylum. He will meet some very
queer creatures in the scenes; he will see many strange things; the
brilliant lights around him, the patches of color flashing into his
eyes, the sea of faces and the tangle of millinery in the auditorium,
will mystify him; the startling streaks of black upon the faces of
the men and women who jostle him as he closely hugs the wings, their
red noses and blooming cheeks, the general tomato-can aspect of their
faces, the shaggy wigs and straggling beards that look as if they had
been torn off the back of a goat only ten minutes before; the dismal,
commonplace clothes that shine so radiantly when seen from a chair in
the parquette or dress circle,--all these things will set his poor
brain in a whirl; and while he is looking on awe-stricken, the scene
shifters will come rushing down upon him with a new delusion, trampling
on his toes in a manner that suggests in a most potential way his
superfluity in that particular place, and pushing him aside without
the merest apology, and perhaps with no other remark than a fragment
of fervent profanity, as if he were a wretched street Arab in that
mimic world in which the scene shifter and the captain of the "supers"
play such very important parts. People come out of every imaginable
place all around him. There seem to be doors everywhere,--in the walls,
the floor, the ceiling, and even in space; and as the "vasty deep"
and the rest of the surroundings give up their dwellers, the intruder
receives fresh jolts and thrusts, and possibly additional donations
of profanity. This, of course, applies only to the male apparitions
that overwhelm the strange visitor to the new world behind the scenes.
The female portion of that illusory sphere have nothing to say to him
except with their eyes, which very forcibly inquire the meaning of his
presence there.

[Illustration: LOTTA.]

If a person would like to understand how awfully strange and lonely it
will be for the last individual left alive upon earth, he need only
pay a first visit to the stage of a theatre where he is not acquainted
with any of the actors or actresses, and has not even the pleasure of
knowing one of the minor attaches. Any attempt to form an acquaintance
is promptly and unmistakably repelled, and all the poor unfortunate
has to do is to move up where he is out of everybody's way, and he
can look on and wonder to his heart's content. As he inspects his
surroundings and has his attention called to the actions of the people
whose business it is to place the stage in shape for an act or scene
of a play, he will readily comprehend the meaning of forming a world
out of chaos. If they are getting ready the balcony scene for "Romeo
and Juliet," wing pieces are pushed out to represent trees and the side
of the house of the Capulets--and what a house it usually is, too,
for such elegant people! The front of the house is rapidly placed in
position between two wings, the balcony is quickly nailed on, and with
the aid of a rude scaffolding behind the scene and a ladder, the fair
Juliet mounts, and, feeling her way carefully, at last steps out upon
the frail structure to tell the sweet moon her love for Romeo. The
whole thing looks ridiculous. Even the stately daughter of the Capulets
has not beauty or skill enough to remove the absurdity from the scene
which has the appearance of being, and is in reality nothing else than
wood and canvas freely splashed with paint of the proper colors. A
painted box represents a stone; a green carpet passes for grass; the
beautiful bric-a-brac that opens the eyes of the æsthetic people in the
audience is only brown paper hurriedly daubed by the scene painter's
apprentice; the wall of the Capulets' garden is a very frail canvas
concern, and the floral attributes are frauds of the deepest dye from
the scenic artist's long table of colors. The whole picture is simple,
but unintelligible to the looker-on for the first time, and as he
vanishes through the door he laughs heartily at the very thin disguise
tragedy and comedy are required to put on to delude and please the
public.

Let him return to the theatre in the morning and view its mysteries
shorn of the dazzle and splendor that the night brings. He will be more
astonished still. The place is usually as dark as a dungeon, there
being something peculiar in the construction of theatres which makes
them bright at night and dismal during daylight. If a stray slant of
light falls anywhere upon the stage it will be rudely mocked by the
bits of burning candle by the aid of which the stage carpenter is at
work right in the very spot where, twelve hours before, Romeo and
Juliet lived and died for each other in such a lamentably pathetic way
that the audience shed tears, and only gave the lachrymal rainstorm
a rest at intervals long enough to shower the star with applause.
The stage carpenter's assistant is there too, the machinist, the
scene painters, the men who have charge of the company's baggage, the
property-man, and others. They fill the scene in a lugubrious and
wholly uninteresting way,--all are at work, and as heedless of the
attendance of strangers as the actors and stage hands of the night
before had been. The scenes have lost their color--such as are left,
and this mimic world that had its admiring and aspiring hundreds is
as bare and desert-like as a bald head after its owner has been using
hair restoratives for about six months. It has neither shape nor any
suggestion of its whilom beauty and attractiveness. The green-room may
be explored, and the dressing-rooms, but they will reveal nothing;
their former occupants are probably still abed, and unless there is
to be a rehearsal they will not be seen around again until 7 o'clock
at night. He must not be too searching in his explorations or the
attention of the attaches will be attracted, and the conversation that
will follow may not be the most pleasant in the world to him. Moving
down the stairs that lead to the space under the stage, the explorer
will find it darker and more dungeon-like still, and even if it were
light nothing could be seen but the steam boiler, for heating and power
purposes, the ventilating apparatus, the numerous trap-door openings
and the posts about them, with a few other accessories that are hardly
worth mentioning. Again he will be forced to confess that everything is
very simple, but he cannot understand any part of it, and again he goes
away with a laugh on his lips and merriment in his heart because the
people are so easily pleased, and theatrical managers find it so easy
to entertain them.

A visit to the dressing-tent of the circus will be equally barren
of appreciable results. He can see the dazzling costumes, the
shapely limbs of the females, the gaily-caparisoned steeds, the red
gold-laced coats of the supers, and a chaotic heaping up of a number
of indescribable articles, but behind the canvas screen that divides
the tent lie secrets that he must not attempt to penetrate, for there
are the lives, the lies and the fascinations of the performers.
There, awkward limbs receive their roundly shaping, and old age,
by a magic touch with the elixir of the "make-up" box, puts on the
masquerading bloom of youth. The same might, to some extent, be said
of the dressing-rooms of the theatre, only the application could not
be as wide or general as in the circus profession, for the lives these
people lead soon lay waste their beauty if they happen to be young,
and crowd senility upon them long before the usual time. Their work is
always hard, their surroundings are of the very worst kind, they grow
up in an atmosphere of fraud, and they necessarily learn early the
arts of deception whereby their employers make fame and fortune. But
I have taken a stranger into the dressing-tent, and I must not abuse
the hospitality of the place by exposing its sins in his presence. The
stranger is introduced all around, shakes hands with everybody, even
the premiere equestrienne, or, perhaps, the charming and daring little
lady who is twice daily shot out of a cannon, and besides makes two
headlong dives a day from the dome of the tent into the net spread
beneath. All are glad to see him, and he is surprised to find that
the two Indians who juggle fire-brands and do other feats not at all
consistent with the traditions of the aborigines, have not sufficient
savage blood in their veins to make respectable cigar store signs, but
are base counterfeits of the noble red man, applications of chocolate
and vermilion to their faces, and the usual accompaniment of black
hair, feathers, and deerskin clothing having bestowed upon them all the
air of the child of the forest that they possessed. As the band sounds
the music for the riding act the equestrienne's horse dashes tamely
into the ring, and the gentlemanly agent of the show pushes the visitor
out to have him "look at an act that beats anything of the kind in the
world."

As in the material or mechanical features of the show there are
mysteries of the most interesting and instructive kind, so, too, the
personal features of the realm of entertainment--the great world of
amusement--contain much that will not only surprise, but will tickle
the unsophisticated. By lifting the veil the least bit, the reader
can have a peep at the most attractive of the events and incidents
that go to make the romantic career of an actor or actress. There are
various little things that look simple and innocent enough when they
appear in the shape of a newspaper paragraph that contain a world of
meaning to the initiated. There are methods of getting and keeping
players before the public of which the latter know no more than they
do of the wife of the man in the moon. There are flagrant scandals
mingling with the innocent revels of these masquerading people,
and there are, too, some of the saintliest, sweetest, manliest and
womanliest of individuals in a profession that almost the entire world
looks upon with the wildest suspicion, and whose bright names and
fair fames can never be tarnished by the iniquitous doings of persons
lower and less respectable in character. In all that will be written
here regarding the dark side of theatrical life, I wish it distinctly
understood that there is no desire or intention to cast even the
slightest reflection upon the honored and respected members of a grand
profession, and wherever a seemingly sweeping and uncomplimentary
statement may be made, the reader will be kind enough to add a saving
clause in favor of all those who do not deserve such condemnation.
In the concert saloon, the variety den, the boys' theatre, and the
numerous other dives in which vice parades boldly and nakedly, will
be found ample field for trenchant and graphic writing. These pits
of infamy flourish everywhere, and are as freely patronized as the
charms of their female attractions are freely displayed; the girls in
short dresses, in gleaming tights, with padded bust and cotton-rounded
limbs, their seductive wiles, their beer-thirstiness, their reckless
familiarity with male friends and strangers, alike from the beardless
boy of fourteen to the bald and withering _roué_, the ample freedom
with which they throw themselves into the arms of victims and give
themselves up to the most outrageous revels; the female minstrel gang
and the break-o'-day girls, who supplement their sins on the stage with
subsequent and even more surprising iniquity in the hop or dance that
follows the show,--all these phases of the lower strata of theatrical
life, as being more productive of interesting secrets of a so-called
stage, must be touched upon, that the reader may be able to contrast
the extremes of the amusement world, and understand that in mimic as
well as real life, there are abject misery and squalid sinfulness
while, above all, shines the grand and stainless character of the noble
and pure-minded people who bring genius and virtue to the profession of
which they are bright, shining ornaments.




CHAPTER II.

A THEATRE OF SHAKESPEARE'S DAY.


If some of the old Greek dramatists could shake together their ashes
and assume life, they would open their ancient eyes to look upon the
beauty, comfort, and charming symmetry of the first-class theatre of
the present day. The ancients were at first obliged to put up with
representations given upon rude carts; afterwards stone theatres were
constructed, with the performers placed in a pit in the middle space,
but no such effort at decoration, or to provide for the convenience
of spectators, was to be seen as is to be found everywhere now. The
plays, too, while they may have been delightful to our Hellenic
predecessors, would hardly draw a corporal's guard at the present time,
when spectacular melodrama is all the rage, and the only chorus the
average theatre-goer cares to see is the aggregation of pretty girls in
entrancing tights, and with the utmost scantiness of clothes to hide
their personal charms, who sing the concerted music in comic opera.
This is the kind of chorus that sends a thrill of ecstacy through the
heart, and around the resplendent dome of thought of the much-maligned
modern bald-head. The strophe and anti-strophe of the ancient drama
would set the nineteenth century citizen crazy as a wild man of
Borneo. The ancient drama was gradually replaced by the ecclesiastical
drama,--the mystery or miracle play,--an example of which remains
to us in the celebrated "Passion Play," performed at Obarammergan at
stated intervals, and over the projected production of which, in this
country, there was so much trouble that the play was never produced.
In this style of drama, events in the life of the Savior, or the great
mysteries of the church, were the topics dealt with by the saintly
playwright, and the actors personated characters ranging from the Devil
up through the various grades of saintliness and angelic beatification
to God Almighty himself. The miracle play flourished during the
middle ages, and survived down almost to the Elizabethan period, when
Shakespeare appeared upon the scene; and with his advent there came a
revolution, the outgrowth of which is the present perfect and beautiful
theatre. The change in the style of plays brought a change in the style
of places for their representations, and while the Bard of Avon was
making his reputation in the dramatic line, the Globe and Blackfriars
were leading the way to advancement in the matter of theatrical
structures. They had performances on Sunday in those olden times, and
while good Christians were worshipping God in their sanctuaries, the
undevout Britons of the "golden age" were worshipping Thespis in his.

Let us drop back into a theatre of the Shakespearian epoch, some Sunday
afternoon when the weather is fine, and you will not be compelled to
stand bare-headed in the pit. Let us go to the Globe. It was situated
on the Bankside. It was a wooden building, of hexagonal shape, open to
the sky, and partly thatched. To a little tower-like projection from
the roof was fastened a staff of no inconsiderable height, from which
always fluttered the flag of England. Windows were sparsely distributed
here and there, on each side of the building, while over the door was
displayed the figure of Hercules bearing the globe upon his brawny
shoulders. Whether the mythological giant came with his terrestrial
burden to dedicate, _in propria persona_, this temple to the mightiest
of the muses, or whether the whole thing was only a cunning contrivance
of some skilful artisan, embodying the conception of a clever play
writer, history does not record.

Whenever a play was to be enacted, the entrance to the Globe was always
jammed with footboys, eager for a chance to hold a gentleman's horse,
or lounging gallants, who collected to show themselves and to ogle the
ladies as they entered. It was a lively spectacle, as stiff dames and
ruffled noblemen, poor artisans and sleek gallants, wits and critics,
footmen and laborers and ragged urchins stepped forward to pay the
admittance fee of a shilling or a sixpence, or to make a respectful
offer of their credit, which was usually most disrespectfully condemned
as unlawful tender. It was a lively sight as gouty old gentlemen
flourished huge _batons_ over the scraggy heads of malicious boys
who jostled them purposely; as titled old dames in immense flaring
petticoats endeavored to smooth their noble wrinkles, and look mincing
and modest under the impertinent gaze of the bedizened fops, and
as the fops themselves twisted and bent and bowed and shook their
powdered wigs, twirled their glove-fingers, or turned out their toes
fastidiously, at the imminent risk of dislocating their tarsals.

But let us enter with the crowd and observe the internal economy of
the theatre, and the character of the performance. Though externally
hexagonal, the building within is circular in form. There is no roof,
as before intimated, and the exhibitions occurring only in the summer
and in pleasant weather, the air is always serene and pure, and the
audience requires no protection from storms or wind. In the centre
of the enclosure is the pit, as in modern play-houses. Here, "the
understanding gentlemen of the ground," as Ben Jonson has it, revelled
in the delights of the drama at sixpence a head; the bosom of the earth
their sole footstool, and the blue canopy of heaven their only shelter.
The "great unwashed did congregate" upon this spot, sometimes in
immense numbers, to luxuriate at once in Shakespeare and tobacco; for
be it known, the ancient theatres of London were to the working classes
very much what its modern porter and beer shops are. They were places
of resort where tradesmen and tradesmen's wives assembled to gossip and
smoke and steep.

Surrounding the pit upon all sides except where the stage completed
the circle, were the boxes or rooms, as they were called. In these
were assembled those who could lay claim to rank or wealth. They were
furnished with wooden benches--a luxury of which the pit could never
boast, and which was purchased for a shilling. It will be observed,
from what has been said, that the internal arrangements of the ancient
theatres were upon precisely the same plan as those of the modern. The
cause of this identity of structure may be easily traced. As late as
the reign of Henry VIII., it was customary to enact plays and pageants
in the courts of inns. These were usually quadrangular in form, with
balconies or piazzas projecting into the court, and corresponding
with the stories of the building. The stage was erected near the
entrance-gate, and occupied one entire side of the quadrangle. The
inn-yard thus formed the pit or parquette, for the accommodation of
the "understanding gentlemen," while the balconies or rooms (rising
above each other in tiers varying with the number of stories)
corresponded to the boxes. It was from this crude, original conception
that the architects of Queen Elizabeth's reign fashioned the Globe and
Blackfriars, and from thence has it come down to the present day.

Directly in front of the pit was the stage, protected by a woollen
curtain. Unlike modern "drops," it was divided in the middle, and
suspended by rings from an iron rod. When the performance was about to
commence it was drawn aside--opening from the middle; the rolling up
process is an achievement of some later mind.

Hark! Do you hear the gentle grating, the jingling, the rustling of
woollen? Without the slightest premonitory symptoms there has been a
rupture of the curtain, and the mysteries it so securely hid are most
unexpectedly revealed. Seated upon wooden stools or reclining upon the
rushes with which the stage is strewn, are a number of individuals
composedly smoking long pipes, whom the unsophisticated might take for
actors. Far from it; they are the perpetual bane of actors--wits and
gallants, who delight in nothing so much as in exhibiting themselves
for the public to admire, or confusing the actors by their pleasantries
and disturbing the progress of the play.

Protruding from the further wall of the stage is a balcony, supported
on wooden pillars, and flanked by a pair of boxes in which those who
rejoiced in being singular or who could not afford the full price of
admission were accommodated. The balcony was used by the actors. It
served as the rostrum when a large company was to be addressed; it was
the throne of kings and princes, the grand judgment-seat of mighty
umpires, and in cases of necessity was convenient as the first-story
window of an imaginary dwelling-house. For this latter purpose it was
particularly useful in the garden scene between Romeo and Juliet. But
while we have been delaying in description, the rushes upon the boards
have rustled, the actors have made their appearance, and the business
of the play has commenced.

For the purpose of illustrating the manner in which performances were
conducted, we select the "As You Like It," of Shakespeare, as being
most familiar to the general reader, and also peculiarly adapted to
our purpose. Orlando and Adam make their appearance, and a signboard
nailed to one of the side entrance communicates the altogether
unsuspected fact that we are gazing upon an orchard. We see nothing
which in any way favors the agreeable illusion: there are the rushes,
the smoking fops, the balcony and a maze of pine boards, but nothing
that looks like trees. Still, let not these things move you to that
degree of uncharitableness or presumption that you doubt whether there
be an orchard; does not the infallible board with its painted letters
positively affirm, "This be an orchard?" Other _dramatis personæ_
soon enter, and the hypothetical orchard becomes the scene of a most
animated and interesting colloquy--the assembled company receiving no
intimation that the fruit trees are no more, until the curtain falls,
or rather is drawn, upon the first act.

When the woolen hangings are again separated, the imagination is no
longer painfully strained to support the illusion of the apples, but
the unerring board directs the wandering eye to the vast forests of
Arden. Here Jaques makes his sublime forest meditations in an area of
ten feet by twelve, enclosed in rough pine boards; his enthusiasm,
considerably damped by the provoking witticisms of critics and
gallants, and his utterances choked by the volumes of tobacco smoke
which roll in lazy, suffocating clouds toward the ceiling from a score
of pipes. The affectionate ditties of Orlando are nailed to visionary
trees, and he makes passionate love to the fair Rosalind amid fumes
which strangle tender phrases, and convert sighings into pulmonary
symptoms of a different character.

It should here be observed by way of explanation, that Rosalind, when
personated in Elizabeth's time, was fair only by courtesy; for female
parts were enacted during her reign, and indeed, during many subsequent
reigns, by boys or young men. There is an anecdote related of Charles
II., which is a matter of history, and illustrates this point very
well. It is said that on one occasion, visiting the theatre at the
bringing out of a new play, by some great author, he became impatient
at the unusual delay in drawing asunder the curtain. The royal wrath
soon became extreme, and it was essential to the prospects of the
"management" that it should be appeased. Accordingly, when the vials of
imperial indignation were about to be emptied promiscuously upon the
assembly, when the storm was just about to burst, a messenger from the
green-room informed his majesty that the fair heroine had not finished
shaving,--and the tempest immediately subsided. At each successive act
new boards with fresh inscriptions inform us of the situation of the
performers. The saloons of the duke's palace and the cottage of the
peasant--scenes in doors and scenes out of doors--are precisely the
same, with the exception of the invariable and ever-changing signboard.

But there is one novelty, one new feature in the representation as
the play progresses. It will be recollected that the balcony was
mentioned as furnishing a throne for princes, and a judgment-seat for
dispensers of justice. During the wrestling contest between Charles and
Orlando, this most serviceable commodity comes into requisition. Here
sits the "duke" as umpire of the combat and general of the troops and
retainers who stand on guard below. It is quite refreshing to hear his
stentorian voice issuing from so unusual a quarter--it furnishes quite
an agreeable relief to the tedious monotony of insipid dialogue going
on among the rushes below.

The play, however, proceeds rather sluggishly from the utter meagreness
and insufficiency of the "scenery, machinery and decorations," so
indispensable to the attractiveness of theatrical exhibitions. The
tradesmen in the pit turn their backs to the stage and their eyes
to the skies, as they clasp affectionately the almost exhausted
flagon, and pour into their thirsty throats the residue of half a
dozen potations. The crimpled dames in the boxes relax their majestic
stiffness, and relapse somnolent into the arms of the gouty old
gentlemen, their husbands. The wits and "clever" men upon the stage
grow more boisterous in their pleasantries, and fumigate more zealously
as they pelt the unfortunate actors with rushes, or trip them as
they "exeunt." To the vulgar crowd the only attractions which the
performance offers, are the brilliant dresses of the actors and the
vestige of a plot which the personation enables them to glean. As a
general thing, however, the stage now receives hardly any attention.
Pipes, tankards, and gossip are the order of the day, and everybody is
glad when Orlando succeeds in obtaining his hereditary rights, wins the
hand of the beautiful Rosalind, is dismissed in happiness, and the
woolen screen slips along its iron rod for the last time.

Such was the style of dramatic exhibitions in the Elizabethan era. The
stage was totally devoid of all scenic appendages calculated to produce
the illusion necessary to add interest and intelligence to the plot.
Rocks and trees, palaces and hamlets, places of festivity and scenes
of shipwreck, all existed merely in the imagination, with neither
properties nor scenery to aid in the deception.

[Illustration: INTERIOR OF A MODERN THEATRE.]




CHAPTER III.

THE AMERICAN THEATRE.


Good-natured, rosy-cheeked, cheerful little Davy Garrick, as Dr.
Johnson called the tragedian, was in the zenith of his glory at the
Drury Lane, London, about the middle of the last century, and Goodman's
Fields, which had cradled the wonderful actor, was in its decline. It
declined so rapidly after Garrick deserted it that its manager, Wm.
Hallam, failed in 1750, and the theatre was closed. Hallam at once
turned his thoughts toward America as a field in which his fortune
might be replenished,--English actors and managers still look upon this
country as an El Dorado,--and so he consulted with his brother Lewis
Hallam, a comedian, and the two came to the conclusion to organize a
company and run the risk of being scalped by what they considered the
liberal but bloodthirsty tomahawk-wielding citizens of the New World.
They got a company together, twenty-four stock plays, many of them
Shakespearian, were selected, with eight farces and a single pantomime,
"The Harlequin Collector, or The Miller Deceived." Wm. Hallam and his
brother were to share the profits of the venture, and the former was to
remain at home while the latter managed the company and threw in his
services as first low comedian, his wife and children also taking parts
in the performances.

Under the direction of Lewis the company, with some scenery, costumes,
and all the usual stage accessories, set sail on board the Charming
Sally in 1752. During the voyage when the weather permitted, the
company rehearsed their plays on the quarter-deck of the vessel, having
the crew and officers for their audience, and receiving from them many
manifestations of the delight which their histrionic efforts brought to
the Jack Tars' hearts. They landed at Williamsburg, then the capital of
Virginia, and the manager after a diligent search found a store-house
on the outskirts of the town, which he thought would suit his purpose.
This he leased and metamorphosed into a theatre with pit, gallery,
and boxes, and having the establishment ready on September 5, 1752,
on that day the first performance ever given in America by a regular
company of comedians, was given to a presumably large and delighted
audience. As was the custom in those days, the bill was a double one,
consisting of "The Merchant of Venice" and the farce "Lethe." The cast
for "The Merchant of Venice" was as follows: _Bassanio_, Mr. Rigby;
_Antonio_, Mr. Clarkson; _Gratiano_, Mr. Singleton; _Salanio_ and
_Duke_, Mr. Herbert; _Salarino_ and _Gobbs_, Mr. Wignel; _Launcelot_
and _Tubal_, Mr. Hallam; _Shylock_, Mr. Malone; _Servant to Portia_,
Master Lewis Hallam (being his first appearance on any stage);
_Nerissa_, Miss Palmer; _Jesica_ (her first appearance on any stage),
Miss Hallam; _Portia_, Mrs. Hallam. The cast for "Lethe" was as follows
(the _Tailor_ having been cut out, and the part of _Lord Chalkston_
not having been written into the farce at the time the Hallam company
left England): _Esop_, Mr. Clarkson; _Old Man_, Mr. Malone; _Fine
Gentleman_, Mr. Singleton; _Frenchman_, Mr. Rigby; _Charon_, Mr.
Herbert; _Mercury_, Mr. Adcock; _Drunken Man_ and _Tattoo_, Mr.
Hallam; _John_, Mr. Wignel; _Mrs. Tattoo_, Miss Palmer; _Fine Lady_,
Mrs. Hallam.

The Williamsburg theatre was a very rude structure, and so near the
woods that the manager could, as he often did, stand in the back door
of the building and shoot pigeons for his dinner. Still the company
remained here for a long time and met with much success. The house
was finally destroyed by fire and the company removed to Annapolis,
where a substantial building was converted to their use and where they
remained with fortune favoring them until they got ready to go to
New York. This they did in 1753, opening a theatre in the metropolis
on September 17th, that on Nassau Street, in a building afterwards
occupied by the old Dutch Church. The bill for the first night was
"The Conscious Lovers" and the ballad-farce "Damon and Phillida." But
three performances were given each week--on Mondays, Wednesdays, and
Fridays--and this continued to be the rule up to the beginning of the
present century. The price of admission was eight shillings to the
boxes, six shillings to the pit and three shillings to the gallery.
This was on the first night, but the second night the prices were
lowered to six shillings, five shillings, and three shillings for
boxes, pit, and gallery respectively, and by the middle of October
a fourth reduction was made, so that admission to the pit could be
had for four shillings and to the gallery for two shillings. The
performance began at six o'clock, and on the bill for the opening night
appears a request that ladies and gentlemen will come to the theatre
in time, and a statement that nothing under the full price will be
taken during the entire performance. This seems to be a departure from
the custom of the mother country, where half price was received for
admission after the third act. The Nassau Street theatre was closed
on the evening of March 18, 1754, with "The Beggars' Opera" and "The
Devil to Pay."

While the company was still in New York, Manager Hallam was endeavoring
to come to terms with the Quakers of Philadelphia, who strenuously
objected to having players in their midst, or to allowing stage
representations in their city. Mr. Malone, a member of the company, was
at length sent on to the Quaker City, as Hallam's ambassador, and after
considerable trouble succeeded in obtaining Gov. Hamilton's permission
to present twenty-four plays and their attendant farces provided there
was nothing indecent or immoral in them. In April, 1754 the company
gave its first performance in Philadelphia, playing the tragedy of
"The Fair Penitent," and the farce, "Miss in Her Teens." The building
occupied by the actors is designated by William Dunlap, the historian
of the early American theatre, as "the store-house of a Mr. Plumstead,"
and was situated "on the corner of the first alley above Pine Street."
After the twenty-four performances had been given by "authority of his
excellency," Gov. Hamilton, the players were allowed to add six more
nights, after which they returned to New York. Here they erected a
theatre on Cruger's wharf, between Old Slip and Coffee House Slip, and
prospered.

Boston did not have a theatre until 1792, and then got its first place
of amusement only because Wignell and three other members of Hallam's
company, for some reason or other, seceded from it. The seceders
brought to their standard some money men of the Hub, a building was
erected, and on August 10, 1792, the first show was given; feats on
the tight rope and acrobatic and other artists contributing to the
entertainment. Five years later New York had two theatres, one on the
Johns, and the other on Greenwich Street, and when the nineteenth
century began, amusements were in a flourishing condition in all the
large cities of the country, and the theatre had taken firm root and
gave full promise of its present prosperity in the New World.

They were a queer band, these early strollers on American soil. It
reads like a romance to follow them through the history of their
early struggles, and to scrutinize the personal peculiarities of the
individuals who composed the company. One of them--I forget which at
the present moment--was an imaginative fellow given up to all sorts of
schemes and inventions, and published far and wide the announcement
that he had discovered a process of manufacturing salt from sea water.
A member of one of the earliest orchestras--a short time after Hallam
had ceased furnishing music to his audience with "one Mr. Pelham and
his harpsichord" or the single fiddle of a Mr. Hewlett--had been a
Catholic priest in Switzerland, and had suffered the tortures of the
Inquisition. He told his story to his manager one day and it was really
touching. His mother, he said, had dedicated him in his infancy to the
priesthood. When he became old enough he was placed in a theological
seminary, instructed and duly ordained. He was a priest when Spain went
to war against France. His canton raised a regiment, and the priest
being made its chaplain accompanied it to Madrid. In Madrid he for the
first time learned to love. He met in the street a handsome Spanish
lady who won his heart and lit the fire of passion in his frame. He
became acquainted with her, and ascertained that the lady reciprocated
his affection. There were many moments of stolen pleasure, many sighs
and vows, until they finally agreed to flee together to America. The
day and hour were agreed upon, and the lovers were in readiness, when
a strong hand was laid upon the recreant priest's shoulder and he was
thrown into prison. He realized his awful position at once, knowing
that he was in the power of that monster, the Inquisition. For weeks
he remained chained to the floor of his cell. Once he was led out
to execution, but by some miracle or accident, was saved. At last,
having suffered severely, he was put to the torture, and weak, dying,
and distracted was led to the gate of his prison, thrust out into
the street, and warned as he valued his life to leave Madrid within
ten days. It is needless to say he did so, and never learned or saw
anything more of his Spanish sweetheart.

From the rude and uncomfortable theatre of a century ago, with
dressing-rooms under the stage, and but a single fiddle or harpsichord
player for the orchestra, with poorly lighted and illy ventilated
auditoriums, with meagre scenery and ragged wardrobes--from the
primitive theatre of the New World has grown the magnificent,
symmetrical, and elegantly appointed houses of amusement of the
present day--structures beautifully and chastely ornamented in their
exteriors, while their interiors have received the most delicate
touches of the artist's brush and the most careful attention from
the upholsterer--beautiful in color and drapery, rich in furniture,
and the very perfection of architectural design. Our stages are
revelations of dramatic completeness, sometimes presenting scenic
pictures that challenge nature itself in their attractiveness, and at
all times surrounding the actors of a play with accessories gorgeous
and extensive enough to mystify as well as delight nine out of every
ten patrons of the theatre. The manner in which these extraordinary
and pleasing illusions are produced is one of the great secrets of the
stage, and when the mechanism employed is explained the reader will be
surprised to learn how simple and almost undisguised are the methods
whereby the people behind the scenes work and multiply wonders.




CHAPTER IV.

AT THE STAGE-DOOR.


The patrons of the theatre must all find their way into the house
through the front doors; only the privileged few are allowed access
to the mysteries and wonders of the stage through the back door. Here
stands a gentleman, generally of repulsive mien and unattractive
manners, whose special business it is to see that nobody, not entitled
to do so, penetrates the sacred precincts, and who learns at once to
distinguish between the people who come prying around his bailiwick
merely for curiosity, and those who are there to "mash" a susceptible
ballet girl or perhaps an indiscreet member of the company. Those
who are led to the stage-door by curiosity are numerous and they are
all promptly repulsed; and the "mashers" who stand at the stage-door
after the performance is over, must get into the good graces of the
door-keeper, and retain his friendship if they desire the course of
true love to run smoother than the old adage says it runs.

In the large theatres of Eastern cities the cerberus who guards the
stage entrance generally has a little sentry box just inside the door,
with a window cut in it, a stove placed inside in cold weather, a
number of pigeon-holes for letters, and indeed all modern conveniences,
as the saying goes. Here he sits and smokes, hailing everybody who
passes in and saying a kind or snarling word to all who pass out. If
the mail has brought a letter for any member of the company, or a
"masher" has sent one of the girls a dainty little note expressive
of the sentiment that is swelling in his twenty-six-inch bosom, the
cerberus will have it, and will hand it out to the person for whom it
is intended with an appropriate and not always complimentary remark
about it. Sometimes this guardian of the theatric arcana will take
advantage of his position to tyrranize over the ballet girls and
other subordinates of a company, and will rule in his autocratic way
to his own pecuniary and other profit. In the East he is made a kind
of time-keeper, notes when the performers appear for duty and when
they are absent, besides otherwise making himself serviceable to the
management and careful of the interests of his house.

A story is told about one of them--I think his name was Bulkhead--who
was employed at a theatre where the ballet was large, and the girls
paid very liberal tribute to him. They gave him silk handkerchiefs
of the prettiest and most expensive kind to wipe his fantastic mug
on; they paid for innumerable hot drinks with which he rounded out
the waist of his pantaloons; they dropped cigars into his always
outstretched paw, and otherwise drained their own resources to make
Mr. Bulkhead as happy and comfortable as possible. He, at first, took
whatever was offered, but soon grew bold, and demanded fifty cents each
of their little five dollars a week, every salary day. The girls made
up their minds not to accede to this demand, which they deemed unjust
and exorbitant; they not only positively refused to give Bulkhead any
money, but would give him nothing else, not even a two-cent cigar. As
a result, about one-half of the girls forfeited a portion of their
salaries next pay-day. This aroused all the fury there was in the
entire ballet, and when they found out, too, that Bulkhead had driven
away their male admirers they were as wild as so many hyenas. It did
not take long for them to hit upon a means of wreaking vengeance upon
the heartless and unscrupulous door-keeper. They clubbed together what
change they had and got Bulkhead boiling drunk; by the time the show
was over on that (to him) memorable night he did not know which way
to look for Sunday. After the final curtain had fallen and the lights
were dimmed, Bulkhead sat at the door on his stool swaying like an
unsteady church-steeple and snoring like an engine when its boiler is
nearly empty. The girls picked him up and carried him into a remote
corner of the stage, where they piled a lot of old scenery around him
after tying his hands and feet securely. Then they got red and blue
fire ready, almost under his cherry red and panting nose; one of the
girls took her position at the thunder drum; another had hold of the
rain wheel; another was at the wind machine; a fourth got a big brass
horn out of the music room and a fifth got the bass drum; the remainder
stood ready to lend assistance with their hands and throats. At a
given signal the thunder rolled loudly, the wind whistled vigorously,
the rain came down in torrents, the brass horn moaned piteously, the
bass drum was beaten unmercifully, and pans of burning blue and red
fire were poked through crevices in the piled-up machinery right under
the drunken door-keeper's nostrils, while all the girls shouted at
the tops of their voices and clapped as enthusiastically as if they
were applauding a favorite. Bulkhead after opening his eyes and having
his ears assailed by the din, shouted wildly for assistance and mercy
and all kinds of things; but he got neither assistance nor mercy. The
racket continued for nearly ten minutes when quiet and darkness were
restored, and the girls quietly stole away leaving Bulkhead alone
in his agony under the pile of scenery, where he was found by the
stage carpenter next morning, a first-class, double-barrelled case of
jim-jams. He is now in an insane asylum, and employs most of his time
telling people that notwithstanding all Bob Ingersoll's buncombe and
blarney there must be a hereafter, for he has himself been through the
sunstroke section of it.

[Illustration: DECORATING A SCENE PAINTER.]

The ballet girls of another theatre played an equally effective and
amusing trick upon an obnoxious scene painter. The artist had been in
the habit of painting posts, doorsteps, etc., in the neighborhood of
the stage-door in colors that were not readily perceptible, and when
the young ladies' "mashes" came around after the performance to wait
for them to dress, they innocently sat down upon or leaned against the
fresh paint and ruined their clothes. The scene painter and his friend
were always in the neighborhood to raise a laugh when the disaster
was made known, and the result was that the gay young men would
come near the stage-door no more, and that the sweetly susceptible
creature known as the ballet girl was obliged to go home alone,
supperless. Well, one day the girls found the artist asleep against
his paint-table with a half emptied pitcher of beer by his side.
This was their opportunity. One of the girls who was of a decorative
Oscar-Wilde-like turn of mind got a small brush while another held
the colors, and in ten minutes they had that man's face painted so
that he would pass for a whole stock of scenery; the tattooed Greek
was a mere five-cent chromo alongside of him, and a Sioux Indian with
forty pounds of war-paint on would be a ten-cent side-show beside a
twelve-monster-shows-in-one-under-a-single-canvas exhibition. In this
elaborate but undecorative condition the scene painter wandered off to
a neighboring saloon, the wonder and merriment of all who saw him. He
did not understand the cause of the general stare and unusual laugh at
him, until a too sensitive friend took him to a mirror and showed him
his frescoed features. Profanity and gnashing of teeth followed, and
the artist was prevented from going back to the theatre to murder ten
or twelve people only by a thoughtful policeman who picked him up as
he flew out through the door of the saloon, and carried him off to the
calaboose. He was sorry when he got sober, and from that day to this
has not attempted to paint the coat-tails of the ballet girls' lovers.

A great many of these lovers, as they are designated, are bold
and heartless wretches, who have in some way or other obtained an
introduction to or scraped acquaintance with the sometimes fair young
creatures who fill in the crevices and chinks of a play, or air their
limbs in the labyrinths of a march, or shake them in some strange and
fascinating dance. They look upon the ballet girl, whether she be a
dancer or merely below the line of utility, as legitimate prey, and
without the slightest scruple will waylay or spread a net to catch
her in some quiet but successful manner. They forget that many girls
enter the theatre with the intention of making honorable and honest
livings; that they prize their virtue as highly as the most respected
young lady who moves in the topmost circles of the best society, and
that the theatrical profession is only misrepresented by the men and
women who give themselves up to debauchery, and allow their passions
to run riot to such an extent that they win notoriety of the most
unsavory and unenviable kind. It is only because the stage is besieged
by so many scoundrels and villains who have either bought or begged the
privileges of the back door that the profession is dangerous to young
and innocent girlhood. The stage itself is pure, and could be kept so,
if these hangers-on were only done away with and the youthful student
and aspirant for histrionic honors were allowed to pursue her vocation
unassailed by the handsome tempters who begin by flattery and after an
usually easy conquest, end the dream of love by rudely casting the
fallen girl aside to make room for another victim.

Stand here in the shadow awhile. The performance is at an end, and the
gentlemen who haunt the stage-door are beginning to assemble. There are
probably a half dozen of them. They stand around sucking the heads of
their canes and anxiously awaiting the appearance of their inamoratas.
A burlesque company has the theatre this week, and there are probably
eighteen or twenty handsome young ladies in the combination. Nearly
every one of them is a "masher," and can be depended upon to hit the
centre of a weak male heart, with an arrow from her beaming eye, at
one hundred yards. Some of them have received tender notes from the
front of the house during the night, making appointments for a private
supper at one of the free and easy restaurants; others have met their
gentlemen friends before and can depend upon them to wait at the
stage-door every night. Those who send the notes during the performance
are of what is classed as the ultra-cheeky kind. A man of this class
will do anything to make the acquaintance of a ballet or chorus girl.
I knew one, one night, to push a dozen different notes under the door
of Eme Rousseau's dressing-room, which opened into the parquette,
and he would not desist until Samuel Colville, the manager, caused
him to be dragged out of the theatre and given over to the police.
Another gentleman of the same proclivities having failed to gain Alice
Oates's attention when she was in Chicago, followed her to St. Louis,
Cincinnati, and Louisville, and still being unable to effect a proper
"mash," endeavored to introduce himself successfully and gain her favor
forever by making her a present of a pair of fast horses. Alice very
sensibly refused to accept the gift, and told the fond and foolish
young man to go home to his mother.

Many cases of this kind might be cited to show how easily the women
who enter the profession, partly for the purpose of prostituting their
art, find easy conquest among the hair-brained fellows who are only too
willing to be captives and rarely try to break the fetters of roses
with which they find themselves bound. But keep here in the shadow a
while and watch the manœuvres of the "mashers." The stage-door opens
and out comes a very modest little girl. She does not belong to the
combination playing at the house this week, but is a member of the
regular ballet of the theatre,--one of the few poor creatures who are
obliged to get into ridiculous costumes of enormous dresses or unpadded
tights, to increase the throng of court-ladies, the number of pages, or
add to the proportions of a crowd. She does not dress any better than
a girl who finds employment in a factory. She is young, however, and
stage-struck. She has gone into the profession, braving all its dangers
and with a firm resolution to go unscathed through it, carrying with
her a sincere love for art and a burning desire to attain eminence. But
alas! she has little talent, and absolutely no genius. This can be seen
and appreciated already, although she has not had two lines to speak
since entering the theatre. She has been in the employ of the house
only since the beginning of the season. The "mashers" part to make room
for her as with eyes cast down she trips along the street. Some of
them say smart and pretty things, and some have the impudence to raise
their hats and bid her good-evening. She pays no attention to them,
however, and it is probably fortunate that the tall muscular gentleman
in work-day clothes who has had a pass to the gallery or may not have
been in the theatre at all, and who is waiting a block below to escort
her home, does not know the petty insults that are put upon her or the
snares that beset her path. Every night the big burly fellow waits for
the modest little ballet girl to see her home in safety. The girl does
not tell them at home to what dangers she is exposed, and they never
learn until sometime the fall comes, when a troupe of negro minstrels
or a large comic opera chorus invade the house and lay siege to the
hearts of all the females they find behind the scenes.

Here come two laughing blondes through the stage door. The light
falling upon their faces shows that although they try to appear light
and cheery, there is weariness in their limbs and perhaps distress
in their hearts. They select their male friends at once; indeed, the
latter have been waiting for the gay burlesquers.

"Charley dear, I didn't see you in front to-night," says one.

"Neither did I," says the other; "but George was there. I could tell
him by his red eyes and cherry nose."

"Yes," responds Charley, "there was too much champagne in that last
bottle, and I didn't care about getting out of bed until half an hour
ago."

"You had considerable of the juicy under your vest, last night," the
first girl remarks; and then there is a laugh, and Charley says he
feels in a good humor for tackling more wine at that particular moment,
and the quartette move off to a hack-stand, jump into an open carriage
and with lots of laughter the party are driven away to some suburban
garden with wine-room attachment, or to some urban restaurant where
wine may flow as freely as morality may fade away with the speeding
hours, and the pleasure may last just as long as the restauranteur
thinks he is being well paid for the privileges of his establishment.

Another girl comes through the stage-door. She is probably twenty-four
years of age, is tall, handsome, and most attractive in her manners.
There is the least suspicion of the matron in her appearance, that
dignity of carriage that characterizes women after marriage being
clearly defined in her motions. She knows somebody has been waiting for
her,--a young fellow as tall, handsome, and attractive as herself. He
sees her at once as she comes out, and goes to meet her. Her footsteps
are bent in his direction also. As they come together she lays her hand
upon his extended arm, and says:--

"No, Fred, I cannot go to-night. Sister is sick at the hotel, and the
baby has no one to take care of her. I must go home to my child."

"Pshaw!" says Fred, "I had everything arranged for an elegant drive and
a rattling supper."

"I'm so sorry, Fred;" the woman pleads, "but I can't go to-night. You
will have to excuse me this once. You know it was daylight when we
parted this morning."

"I know," her friend insisted; "but what's the use in worrying about
the baby. She's probably asleep now and won't need your care. Come, go
along."

"No, I cannot. I will not to-night." But Fred continues to plead,
asking the pleasure of her presence at a supper, just for a half hour
and no more. Unable to resist the warmth of his appeals, she at last
consents, and it is safe to say, that once the evening's entertainment
begins, morning breaks upon the sleepy babe and sick sister at the
hotel before Fred and his companion are ready to part.

I knew a friend--a dramatic writer--who stood at the back door one
night and waited for a pair of pretty chorus singers. My friend had
another friend with him--a prominent merchant. The two gay and giddy
young girls, who were only foolish flirts, did not know that the
gentlemen who had invited them to a midnight ride and a late supper
were married. Indeed, they may not have cared. So when the opera of
"Olivette" was over and the pair of chorus singers emerged at the
back door of the stage and found the two gentlemen waiting patiently
for them, the girls each gave over a bundle to her particular friend
to have him carry in his pocket until such time as the quartette
got ready to separate. The bundles each contained a pair of pink
"symmetricals"--padded tights. The young ladies informed their friends
of this fact, and cautioned them to be sure to return the bundles
before leaving. Well, the night wore on joyously with wine and singing
and the usual pleasures of a late drive. At last, at 3 A. M., the girls
got ready to return to their hotel. They were driven thither, and the
entire party having imbibed more wine than was necessary, soft and
sweet adieus were so tenderly spoken that nobody thought about the two
pairs of pink symmetricals. The gentlemen ordered the carriage driver
to speed homeward with them, and he did so. First the dramatic writer
disembarked at the door of his residence, ran up stairs, pulled off
his clothes, and was soon sound asleep. The merchant was soon at his
own door, had settled with the driver and the carriage had just rolled
away when, as he was fumbling at the latch-key he thought of the pair
of tights. With one bound he cleared the steps, and running into the
street, shouted after the carriage. The driver heard him, stopped, and
was given the pair of tights to take around to the chorus girl's hotel
that day and a $5 bill to pocket for the services. It was a narrow
escape for the merchant. For the dramatic writer it was no escape at
all. He was rudely awakened at ten o'clock in the morning, and the
first sight that met his eyes was his infuriated wife holding the pair
of pink tights by the toes and stretching them out so that the sin of
the husband stood revealed to him in all its fulness.

"Where did these come from?" the exasperated wife shrieked, flaunting
them before the husband's eyes.

"Where did you get them?" He asked, trembling, and unable to think of
any good excuse to make.

"I got them in your coat pocket," his spouse shouted, piling up the
evidence and agony in a way that was excruciating.

"By jingo! is that so?" exclaimed the husband, coming suddenly to a
sitting posture in bed, and bringing his hands together vehemently.
"Now, I'll bet $4 Charley ----," giving the name of his merchant
friend, "put them there. He told me he had a pair that he was going to
make a present of to one of the "Olivette" girls at the ----."

Brilliant as this thought was, it did not satisfy the little lady.
She kept up the argument all day, and that night paid a visit to the
merchant's wife, where the affair got into such a tangle that the
two husbands brought in a bachelor friend to shoulder the blame, and
who made the excuse that the whole thing was a trick put up by a few
gentlemen (among them the bachelor was not) on the dramatic man and
merchant to get them into domestic trouble, as they had succeeded in
doing, beyond their most sanguine desires.

And now that we have been long enough at the back door of the theatre,
let us go home and come around to-morrow night to have a view of the
plagues and annoyances to be found before the foot-lights.




CHAPTER V.

BEFORE THE FOOT-LIGHTS.


There are people who patronize the theatre who do not go there simply
to see the play or to be pleased by the players, and whose interest in
the stage is more than double discounted by the interest they manifest
in and towards the audience. The "masher" makes it a market in which
to display his fascinations and call upon the susceptible fraction of
femininity to inspect and avail themselves of his heart-breaking and
soul-wasting wares. Whether he modestly takes his stand in the rear of
the auditorium, overcoat on arm and stove-pipe hat gracefully poised
upon the thumb of his left hand, while, with polished opera-glass, he
sweeps the sea of variegated millinery and obtrusive-hued cosmetics,
or bravely hangs up his charms to view on the front row of the dress
circle, or prominently displays them in a proscenium box, he is ever
the same offensive and shameless barber-and-tailor-shop decoration,
moved by a wild ambition to attract and hold feminine attention,
and always attaining to a degree of notoriety among the masculine
theatre-goers that keeps him overwhelmed with contempt, and causes
him to be as readily recognized as if he had a tag tied to his back
or spread across his vest front, declaring him to be a fisher after
femininity. When the "masher" takes the shape of the young blood,
whose short and tightly-fighting coat is matched by the shallowness of
the crown of his straight-brimmed hat, and whose eye-glasses straddle
his nose as gracefully as his twenty-five-cent cane is carried in his
hand, and this irresistible combination of attractions is thrust upon
the audience from a box opening, the acme of the lady-killing art is
reached and if all the world does not admire the effective tableau it
must be because all the world is unappreciative and the "masher" stands
on an æsthetic plane to which the rest of mankind cannot hope to aspire.

[Illustration: THE "MASHER."]

But the "masher" is only a fraction of the class of amusement patrons
to which attention has been called in the opening sentence of this
chapter. Apart from the people who deem it their duty to come tramping
into the theatre while the performance is going on, and whose coming
is followed by a triumphal flourish of banging seats, and the heaving
footbeats of hurrying ushers, to the intense disgust of all who
care to hear the first act of the play, there are others who have a
hundred ways of annoying an audience, and who make a very effectual
use of their gifts in this direction. There is the member of the
"profesh,"--the gaseous advance agent, or the bloviate business
manager, the actor "up a stump," or the "super" who has played the
part of a silent but spectacular lictor with John McCullough or Tom
Keene, and who sits in the rear of the house, but sufficiently forward
to be distinctly heard by people in the dress circle, criticising
the mannerisms of the ladies or gentlemen on the stage and "guying"
everybody in the cast from the star down to the frightened and
stiff-kneed little ballet girl whom an inscrutable Providence has
allowed to wander in upon the scene occasionally, to say, "Yes, mum,"
or "No, mum." The leisurely but loud professional who thus disports
himself must necessarily enjoy a large share of the audience's
attention, and the more of this he attracts the more he is encouraged
to be extravagant in his criticisms and unreserved in his elocution.
He sometimes must dispute the title to obstreperous obtrusiveness
with some liquor-laden auditor who has succeeded in passing the
door-keeper only to find that the heat of the house has accelerated
his inebriation and given freedom and license to his tongue until the
"bouncer" lifts him out of his seat by the collar and deposits him in
a reflective and emetic mood on the curbstone in front of the theatre.
Then, too, a crowd of friends sometimes get together in the parquette,
who begin a conversation before the first curtain rises and keep it
going on in careless and annoying tones until the final flourish of
the orchestra arrives with the dimming of the lights as the audience
files out. But if the loud members of the "profesh," the interjective
inebriate, and the crowd of communicative friends are not on hand
to furnish diversion for the folks who are trying to follow what is
going forward on the stage, there is one other never-failing source of
distraction and annoyance--the giddy and gushing usher. It is safe to
bet that just when the most pathetic passage of a play is reached, or
the tragedian is singing smallest, a few ushers will throw themselves
hastily together in the lobby and hold a mass meeting long and loud
enough to be taken for a November night political meeting, if there
were only a stake wagon and a few Chinese lanterns strewn around.
Indeed, the usher seems to assume that he is a sort of safety-valve
through which a disturbance must break out now and then to offset
the quiet of the audience. If the usher isn't plying his fiendish
proclivity, some bald-headed man in the parquette is sure to throw his
skating rink over the back of the seat, and, with shining brow turned
up towards the sun-burner in the dome, mouth rounded out like the base
of a cupola and nostrils working like a suction pump, his beautiful
snore will rise above the wildest roar of the orchestra and drown the
mellifluous racket of the big bass drum, until some friendly hand
disturbs the dreamer, and the "or-g-g-g-g-g-g-g!" that rushes up his
nostrils, down his throat and out through his ears, is thus gently and
perhaps only temporarily interrupted. The enthusiast--the man who is
carried away by the spirit of the scene--is also a source of annoyance,
and when he signifies from the balcony his willingness to take a hand
in what is being enacted on the stage, damning the villain heartily,
and, like the sailor of old, openly sympathizing with femininity in
distress, he first becomes a target for the gallery boys' gutter-wit
and finally a prey to the inexorable "bouncer," who roams around the
upper tiers of every theatre and unceremoniously dumps disturbers down
stairs. Last, but by no means least, in the distracting and disturbing
features at theatrical performances is the peanut cruncher. He is
the most cold-blooded and least excusable of all the annoyances with
which amusement patrons are afflicted. He wraps his teeth around the
roasted goober, utterly reckless of the distress he is stirring up in
the bosoms of those around him, and he grinds and smacks and continues
to crunch, stopping occasionally to charge his dental quartz-crusher
anew, and always beginning on the latest goober with the greatest
ferocity, while he seems to make it go ten times further, as far as
time and agony are concerned, than any of its predecessors. All the
other disturbance consequent upon attending a play are petty, compared
with peanut-crunching, and it is the opinion of the writer that a law
should be passed at once, making it a felony for any banana-stand or
hand-cart man to sell peanuts to citizens who are on their way to the
theatre. If such a law were passed, and if it were not a dead letter,
the people whose backbones feel as if they were being fondled by a
circular saw every time they hear the rustling of a goober-shell, would
flop right down on their knees and renew their confidence in the wisdom
of Providence.

The young men and the old men, too, who go out "between acts" to hold
spirit seances with neighboring bar-keepers, while the orchestra is
playing a Strauss waltz or a medley of comic opera numbers for the
solace of the lovely ladies they have left behind them, are a greater
nuisance to the audience of a first-class theatre than one would
imagine. In nine cases out of ten, the man who goes out to see another
man, as the saying is, has his seat in the middle of a row, so that
it is necessary for him to make trouble for ten or a dozen persons
before he can reach the aisle. He tramples on ladies' dresses, comes
into collision with their knees, and sends a thrill of pain to the
utmost ends of the roots of every man's corn he treads on. The same
thing is repeated on the way back to his seat, and there are bitter
mutterings, a great deal of subdued or smothered profanity, and fierce,
rebuking looks flash from beneath the beautiful bonnets of the females.
It doesn't seem to affect the nuisance any, however, for he does the
same thing over every act, and at each repetition increases to the
damage he does and the commotion he creates. Then, to make bad worse,
he manages to surround himself with a distillery odor that assails
feminine nostrils in a most offensive manner, and that will not suffer
itself to be concealed or tempered by the chewing of coffee-grounds,
cloves, or orange-peel. I witnessed the discomfiture of a young man of
this kind, one night, and the scene was a very funny one. He occupied
a seat in the orchestra, in the centre of a row of seats principally
filled with ladies. As the curtain went down the young man determined
to go over and have a look through the saloon opposite. Unwilling to
incommode the ladies in the least, the young man, with Chesterfieldian
grace, elevated a pedal extremity over the back of his chair, with
the intention of going out through the aisle behind. Unfortunately he
stepped between the seat and the back, the movable seat flew up, and
the thirsty young man was left astride of the chair in a decidedly
uncomfortable position. By this time the gallery gods had marked
him for their victim. They hooted, whistled, cat-called, and made
slang remarks about straddling the "ragged edge," to his evident
discomfiture. In vain he attempted to disengage his No. 10's. The rest
of the audience became interested, and opera-glasses were directed
toward the blushing young man. The feminine giggles in his neighborhood
rendered him frantic; laughter and uproar were becoming general, when a
good-natured individual kindly assisted him to escape from his awkward
position. Amid "thunders of applause" he disappeared.

The ladies, too, sometimes contribute largely to the annoyance of
an audience. They are, as everybody knows, inveterate talkers, and
insist on saying almost as much during a performance as the players
say. Their criticism of the toilets of friends and of strangers also,
is loud-sweeping and usually denunciatory, and they have a style of
pillorying their victims in speech that is decidedly heartless, yet
refreshing. But all the faults of loud and untamed talk might have been
forgiven had they not introduced the tremendous big hats which rise
high above their heads and stick far out from their ears completely
shutting off a view of the stage from the persons immediately in the
rear. Strong men have shed tears to find themselves conquered by these
big hats; they have tried to peep around them, and have stood tip-toed
on their chairs to have a glance over the tops of the millinery
structures, but in vain. The hats were too much for them. In a mild,
æsthetic way the ladies' big hats rank among the greatest plagues that
have ever visited the modern play-house.

[Illustration: THE BIG HAT.]

I was in the Grand Opera House at St. Louis, one evening, sitting in
seat No. 3, row B, centre section, parquette circle. Before the play
began two ladies, one dressed in black silk with a white satin jacket
and black beaver hat, with long sweeping feather, and the other plainly
dressed in black cashmere, with a "Sensation" hat and tassel on, came
in and took seats 1 and 2 in row A, same section. Prior to settling
down in their places, they looked inquiringly around the rear of the
theatre, one remarking to the other as they plumped down in the chairs,
"I suppose they haven't got here yet." Seats three and four adjoining
them were vacant. The ladies had come unattended. After they had
arranged themselves the lady with the beaver hat drew out a letter and
held it up to the light so that the reporter could read it. It had a
cut of one of the principal hotels at the top and was note-paper from
that establishment. It said:--

  TO MAMIE AND SADIE: Your note of to-day received. We like your
  style and enclose two seats for Grand Opera House to-night, where
  we hope to meet you both and make your acquaintance.

    Yours sincerely,
    GEORGE AND HARRY.

Just as the orchestra began the overture in walked two gentlemen whom
the usher showed to the vacant seats in row A. One of the men was
tall, bald, portly and rather good-looking and well dressed; he had a
sandy moustache, and what hair was left on his head was reddish, crisp,
and curly. He was probably forty-five years old. His companion was
probably not more than twenty-one, tall, thin, dark-complexioned, with
but a semblance of a moustache. The ladies smiled as the gentlemen took
their places. The men looked at each other, winked, and laughed. When
the two were seated, the bald-headed man made a close and evidently
satisfactory scrutiny of the ladies, and catching the eye of the one in
the beaver hat, the two exchanged smiles--not broad, committal grins,
but soft smiles of mutual recognition. The second lady only dared to
look sideways now and then. The second gentleman, who sat next to the
ladies, was rather shy and kept his hand up to his face from beginning
to end of the play. It was evident this was the first time the
quartette had met, and it was evident also that they had made up their
minds to act with all due decorum while in the theatre. Smiles were now
and then exchanged, but no words were spoken. Once one of the ladies
sent her programme to the bald man, who had none. During the third act
of the play the baldhead began writing short notes which the lady in
the beaver hat answered affirmatively with a nod of her head. When the
show was over the two ladies went around one street, the two men around
another, and they met in the middle of the block opposite the theatre.
There was a brief conversation in which a great deal of tittering was
heard, and then the quartette proceeded to a quiet restaurant of the
most questionable reputation and took one of the private supper-rooms,
which are at the disposal of people whose visit to the establishment is
not by any means for the sole purpose of drinking and eating, but has a
broad and very unmistakable suggestion of immorality in it.

[Illustration: GEORGE AND HARRY.]

[Illustration: LOUISE MONTAGUE.]

The key to the whole affair can be found in the following
advertisement, published in the _Globe-Democrat_ of the preceding
Sunday:--

PERSONAL.--Two gentlemen of middle age and means desire to become
acquainted with two vivacious, fun-loving young ladies who like to go
to the theatre. Address George and Harry, this office.

[Illustration: MAUD BRANSCOMB.]

George and Harry had received an answer to this advertisement from
"Mamie and Sadie," and, just to meet and become acquainted with them,
had purchased the four seats in row A, centre section, Grand Opera
House, making the theatre their place of assignation. "Mamie and Sadie"
were by no means the innocent and unsophisticated creatures they seemed
to be. One of them was the wife of a travelling man who was necessarily
away from home ten months in a year; the other was _nymph du pave_--a
street-walker--who scoured the principal thoroughfares at night for
victims to carry to her "furnished room," and who had been educated up
to the "personal" racket by the lonely and wayward young wife of the
commercial drummer.

So much for the noisy, otherwise obtrusive phases of the subject. The
ladies who go to the theatre to display themselves, to flash their
jewels and flaunt their silks and laces in the faces of the community,
have become so accustomed to the general run of theatrical attractions
that they are really no longer spectators, and may be justly classed
among the distracting agencies in the audience. Their mission is a
"mashing" one to a certain extent, but it is "mashing" of a vain and by
no means harmful character. Other ladies are seen in the dress circle
and the boxes who do not disguise the fact that they have come to the
theatre to fascinate the too, too yielding men. At the matinees there
are women of questionable repute who unblushingly advertise their
calling and who must be set down as a feature most objectionable to the
respectable portion of any community. They behave themselves as far
as words or actions go, but their mere presence in the play-house is
an annoyance that refined and elegant people cannot tolerate. That is
all about them. Now for the very worst practices that are occasionally
noted in theatres, and that the managers know very little if anything
about,--the women who are there for nefarious purposes, and the men
who have other ideas than gratifying their vanity or merely making
heart-conquests. It is a notorious and flagrant fact that fast women
use the theatre as places of assignation, wherein they meet old and
make new acquaintances, and it is equally notorious that men whose
whole energy seems bent to the distruction of innocent girlhood make it
a rendezvous for the purpose of selecting and snaring their victims.

It is perfectly safe to assume that the cunning and sinful pair fleeced
George and Harry before they got through with them.

The very same evening my attention was called by a young lady to a
thinly-bearded, spectacled, sickly-looking middle-aged man who sat in
the next seat to the lady, and who, she complained, had stepped on her
foot several times and in other ways tried to attract her attention and
get her into a conversation. I at once recognized the fellow as one of
an unscrupulous set who pored over big ledgers in the Court-House, and
gave the greater portion of their time to discussions concerning female
friends of ill-repute, and to boasting of the ruin they had brought or
were about to bring to some innocent young girl.

The same man was in the habit of buying single seats in the dress
circle and visited the theatre frequently. He represents a class of
venerable, but iniquitous fellows who make a practice of mixing in
among the ladies, in the hope of scraping an occasional acquaintance,
and who have no good intention in desiring to extend the circle of
their female friends. They should be kept out of every respectable
place of amusement.

[Illustration: SELINA DOLARO.]




CHAPTER VI.

BEHIND THE SCENES.


My first experiences behind the scenes were in a small, dark cellar,
owned by a man who is now a member of the Missouri Legislature,
and where daily and nightly a select company of would-be Ethiopian
comedians of tender age gave performances to small crowds of children
each of whom had paid an admission fee in pins or corks--for we valued
the corks highly as a necessary portion of our stock in trade; we
charred many a one to blacken our faces and treasured them as if they
were worth their weight in gold. Our stage was roughly constructed
of boards laid upon barrels; bagging material hung around the rear
and sides of the stage to shut in the mysteries of the remarkable
dressing-room we had, and an old gray cloth and blanket formed the
curtain which parted in the middle in the manner of the stage curtains
of the Elizabethan age. Bits of candles were our foot-lights and the
audience, made up of boys and girls, were satisfied to sit for hours
on rude benches stretched across the width of the cellar. We played
nothing but black-face pieces, and as they were not taken from books,
but were the memories of sketches we had seen in some pretentious
theatrical resort, they were, of course, short and entirely crude. No
member of that little band has risen to greatness in the theatrical
profession, but I think every one of them now living looks back fondly
to the triumphs of our cellar career. To me that rude stage and its
gunny-bag surroundings were more interesting and full of mystery than
have been any of the wonderful and beautiful temples of Thespis which I
have since entered; and I think when I played the part of _Ephraim_ in
some ludicrous sketch, and in response to the old man's cries from the
stage, "Ephraim! Ephraim! say boy, whar is you?" and I got up suddenly
in the rear of the audience and shouted back, "Hyar I is, boss!"--when
this supreme moment arrived, and the crowd looked back surprised and
laughed, the glow of conscious pride and artistic power that filled
my heart was as genuinely agreeable as the thunders of applause that
greet Booth or John McCullough when their admirers call them before the
curtain after a great act.

[Illustration: JOHN W. M'CULLOUGH.]

I have only a dim recollection of my first introduction to the
professional stage. The fairy spectacle of "Cherry and Fair Star" was
running at a local theatre, with Robert McWade, of recent Rip Van
Winkle fame, and Miss Wallace in the cast. By some good or bad fortune
I happened to be loitering in the neighborhood of the back door of
the theatre, when the captain of the supers called me and hired me at
twenty-five cents a night to go on as imp in one of the spectacular
scenes. I was on hand promptly, and shall never forget my wonder and
astonishment at getting a first glimpse of the secrets of the stage.
It was almost pitch dark when the back door was entered, and there
was nothing in the place at all suggestive of the glamour that the
foot-lights throw upon the scene. Huge clouds of black canvas rose
upon all sides, and men and boys in the dirtiest of workday clothes
were the only persons met. The noise of hammer and saw rose on various
sides, and it seemed as if the stage had not been one-half prepared
for the play that the curtain would ring up on within an hour. The
dressing-room in which fifty or sixty boys were arraying themselves
looked like the interior of a costume establishment after a cyclone
had passed through it. But when all were dressed, and the fairies and
the goblins assembled in the "wings," and the foot-lights were turned
up and the orchestra outside was rattling through some inspiring
air, the small boy in impish raiment was immediately wrapt into a
seventh heaven of delight. There was a multitude of girls in very
low-necked and short dresses with glowing flesh-colored tights that
seemed such inadequate covering for the rounded limbs that blushing was
inevitable. The bright colors in their cheeks, the blackly outlined
eyes and the blonde wigs added to the interest of the new charms.
Every bit of glorious color in the gorgeous scenery appeared to flash
out amid the flood of light. I ran against every variety of demon
that was ever known to M. D. Conway, and was pushed out of the way
of a hundred persons only to find myself obstructing somebody else's
progress. The magnificent revelations of that night filled me with awe
and astonishment for many a week afterward. It was the only night I
appeared as an imp, for I had accepted the engagement without parental
knowledge or consent, and when they learned of my success they at once
put a decided and impressive veto upon any further efforts in the
direction of the professional stage.

That first experience was not, of course, as abundant in opportunities
for observation as later experiences have been. The world behind the
foot-lights--the mimic world as it is called--is a realm of the most
startling and pleasing kind. Not only is there food for wonder in
what the eye falls upon, but the people who furnish the fun for the
world are often among themselves as prolific of pleasantry as if they
expected the applause of a full house to follow their jokes. They say
and do the strangest things, and for a visitor who is investigating
the mysteries of their surroundings, often make the time as lively and
the surroundings as enjoyable as it is possible for really clever and
good-natured people to do. The best time to go behind the scenes is
during the engagement of a burlesque or comic opera company, and I
will introduce the reader to a happy crowd of this kind that I once
found myself in.

[Illustration: BELLE HOWITT IN "BLACK CROOK."]

In 1879 the Kiralfys brought out their spectacular burlesque entitled
"A Trip to the Moon," and I had the pleasure, during its run, of
dropping in behind the scenes of a Western theatre one night to have
a peep at the pictures there presented. Now, the moon is something
like two hundred and eighty thousand miles from here--that is the one
reputed to be made of green cheese, and having phases as numerous
as the occasions that ring the April skies with rainbows. But the
Kiralfys' moon was in another firmament, shining out amid stars that,
when they wink their twinkling eyes or shuffle their shining feet, as
they do frequently, the celestial shiners have got to put on their
cloud ulsters, and sit down while the lachrymose eyes of the heavens
give up their tears. That is why it was raining torrents the night
I went behind the scenes with Mr. Bolossy Kiralfy. As I went in the
back door _Prof. Microscope_, one of the funny characters in the play,
brushed by with a telescope under his arm that was large enough to put
Lord Ross's famous spy-glass into its vest pocket, if it had one. The
moon to which the trip was to be made was not so far as two hundred and
eighty thousand miles by a half block or so, but it was a very funny
world, full of gaslight and laughter, and with the most mirthful sports
imaginable on its glowing surface. I was inclined somewhat to lunar
ways, and thinking like a great many other credulous mortals, that the
trans-atmospheric trip was really made in a cartridge-built coach that
was fired out of a huge mortar at the rate of about eighteen thousand
six hundred and sixty-six and two-thirds miles a minute, had fully
made up my mind to ride on the roof or cow-catcher of the concern, at
whatever risks to life and limb space might abound in. I expected to
find something like a solid space-annihilating Columbiad behind the
scenes, but I was somewhat mistaken.

Just before the curtain was rung up I found myself in the midst of
the fairy world upon which the brilliancy of the foot-light falls.
While the curtain was still down, and before the gasman had opened
the floodgates of splendor, the place was dark; not pitch dark, but
pretty dark, compared with the brilliancy that shown in, over, and
around its space a few minutes later. And then its intricacies, pieces
of scenery here, various properties there, and sections of everything
and anything scattered anywhere and everywhere, made a fellow feel as
if the place was darker than it really was. Glittering and glowing as
the stage appears before the foot-lights; wonderfully romantic as are
its shades and lights, its love and laughter; and astounding as are
its scenic effects; its area and surroundings are terribly realistic
when the foot-lights are left behind, and the "business" of a play is
once laid bare. Here the sighs of love-sick maidens and the spooning
of gilt-edged but uncourageous wooers, the tears of injured innocence
and the self-gratulations of hard-hearted villains who still pursue the
flying female, the prattle of young mouths and the mumblings of "old
men" and "old women," are lost with the departed scenes of the play in
the unceasing desire of the actors to get back into their proper social
and friendly relations to each other, and, once the prompter's book is
closed, stage talk and stage manner are under metaphoric lock and key,
and romance is for a while at an end.

[Illustration: JNO. A. STEVENS.]

On opera bouffe or burlesque nights, however, a great deal of the
stage charm clings to the characters even when off the stage, and one
is compelled to be interested in the grotesqueness of those to be met
in the side scenes--the odd and often pretty creatures who stand,
sit, lie or lean around in the "wings" at their own sweet leisure and
pleasure. There is something so indescribably funny in the costumes,
in the facial make-up, and all that, of the happy opera-bouffer or
festive burlesquer, that the eye follows a quaint character through
the scenes with the same inalienable interest as that with which the
small boy hovers around the heels of an Italian with a hand-organ and a
monkey. The eye, however, must not, cannot linger or languish long upon
a single one of these walking wardrobes. There is a moving panorama
constantly in front of the surprised vision, and before an electric
flash could photograph one single individual in his droll toggery there
would be a dozen or more "shassaying" before the camera.

There was leaning against one of the "wings" a _naive_ and sprightly
piece of feminine beauty, set off in the handsomest and most enticing
manner in the world by a well-rounded, gracefully curved pair of pink
tights, a white satin surtout and mantelet, plentifully besprent with
glittering braid and flashing beads, dainty silk slippers that would
have made a Chinese princess weep with envy, and a jaunty white hat to
match. She was, of course, to figure as the charming little hero of
the evening, if burlesques can be said to have such things as heroes.
A doughty old chap, with bristling hair and a porcupine moustache,
was standing by talking to little pink tights. He was gotten up like
a circus poster in forty colors, with a plentiful array of red on his
head and legs and a sort of sickly-looking, rainbow-sandwich built
about his body. Red, blue and black streaks straying over his features
made it appear as if he might have been assigned the role of an ogre
and was accustomed to nightly look around for his fair companion to
make a meal of her. I immediately made friends with the comic horror
and the little lady in pink tights and learned who and what they were.
The latter was (in the play, of course) a nobby young blood known as
_Prince Caprice_, personated by Miss Alice Harrison; the red-legged
comedian was _King Pin_, the young _Prince's_ funny father and Mr.
Louis Harrison was hidden under the remarkable royal disguise.

"Well, when are we going to start for the moon?" I asked,
good-humoredly.

"In a few fleeting moments," was the regal dough-belly's reply.

"And are all these folks going into the projectile?" pointing to the
crowd of curious characters passing and repassing us.

"Not if the court knows herself and she thinks she does," put in the
_Prince_, pertly; "only the _King_, _Prof. Microscope_ and myself ride
in the cab."

_Prof. Microscope_ was a long, scrawny fellow. He was twirling a
shaggy moustache and buzzing a handsome and not at all bashful ballet
girl at the same time, a short distance away. He was gotten up in a
blue-striped, swallow-tail coat, long enough, if the _Professor_ cared
about lending or renting it out, to be used for a streamer on the City
Hall flagstaff, and short enough in the back to have the waist-buttons
constantly challenging the collar to a prize fight or wrestling
match. Very tight black pants, a luxuriantly frilled shirt front,
fluted cuffs, and white hair allowed to grow to the length worn by
Buffalo Bill, completed his outfit. When I was introduced to him, the
_Professor_ swore by the bones of Copernicus's grandmother on a volume
of patent office reports that he was the sole originator and engineer
of the only direct moon line, and he'd bet his boots or eat his hat
that it never took more than fifteen minutes to make the trip.

"You see," said _King Pin_, "that _Microscope_ is a queer fellow--not a
coney man, you mind."

"Although," said the _Prince_, "he now and then casts his lot on the
turn of the die."

[Illustration: LILLIE WEST.]

"Yes, his lot of last year's clothing," the jolly _King_ remarked, "on
the turn of the dyer."

This effort resulted in six of the supers, who were gotten up in
voluminous dominoes with elaborate, but inexpensive, pasteboard
trimmings, and who were within hearing distance, falling stiff and
stark to the stage.

"Does this kind of thing occur often?" I inquired.

"Oh," growled the _Professor_, "that gag was stuffed and on exhibition
at the Centennial. It was found in an Indian mound near Memphis, and is
old."

And so the talk went on for a while, when up went the curtain and _King
Pin_ leaping on the stage amidst the laughter and plaudits of the
house, told how the pretty _Prince Caprice_ had tired of mundane things
and was heavily sighing for the fountain-head of the lambent silvery
moonlight. _Microscope_, who was at the head of the Royal College
of Astronomers, was besought to do something to aid the _Prince_ in
accomplishing the journey to Merrie Moonland, and in a neat speech
unfolded his plans for a grand dynamo-etherial line that would speedily
carry the _Prince_ to the wished-for happy Land of Luna.

[Illustration: PAULINE MARKHAM.]

Then came the glorious moment when the flight moonwards was to be
made. I hurried around to the prompter's side of the stage where I saw
the mouth of the huge cannon gaping, and got there as they were about
to fire it. Imagine my surprise to find the extraordinary piece of
ordnance made entirely of pasteboard, a substance that a few grains of
gunpowder would blow into as many pieces as the leaves of Vallambrosia.
Still the passengers were to be fired out of this contrivance, and I
felt that if they and the cannon could stand it, it was none of my
business. It had all been explained to the audience, that _King Pin_,
_Prince Caprice_ and _Prof. Microscope_ were the only three persons
to be given seats in the cartridge-cab in which the wonderful journey
was to be made. The question therefore naturally arose, what was
to become of the multitude of characters that crowded the "wings."
There were "supers" in black, yellow and mottled dominoes with high
_papier-maché_ casques, and huge ear-trimmings that reminded one of the
flaps that decorate the sides of a Chicago girl's head, or the sails of
a lake lumberman. There were star-gazers with zodiacal garments and tin
telescopes, all set off by great pairs of soda-bottle-lens eye-glasses,
that gave them the air of a Secchi, or somebody else of astronomical
aspect. There were guards who shouldered tooth brushes made entirely
of wood, with index hands surmounting the tops of their chapeaux and
serving to indicate that their intellects had gone moon-hunting; and
there were other creatures, among them, horrible genii, who started for
the moon by some short route across lots and got there long before the
regular excursionists.

But the corps de ballet! It was everything but a beauty. If there
is anything likely to strike a theatre-goer as ludicrous, it is an
awkward squad of over-grown girls, with gauze-garnished limbs and
dissipated-looking blonde wigs. A precocious ballet-debutante is a
bit of Dead-Sea fruit shot backward off Terpsichore's head, and if
the bullet does not lay Terpsichore herself out in a first-class
undertaker's style it is because Terpsichore happens to be in terribly
good luck. These reflections were suggested by a sight of the
intermingling danseuses that kept pretty well in the rear of the stage.
You could tell the height to which each one could safely fling her foot
on looking at her. The girl who was making her first appearance had not
yet gotten over her splayfootedness, and every time she took a peep
at the audience and began to realize the airiness of her costume and
gawkiness of her manners, her knees knocked together fast enough to
keep a few notes ahead of her chattering teeth. And her dress! there
was nothing marvellous about it--nothing that would carry a person off
into the ideal financial realms of a national debt. It was powerfully
plain with a stiff and provoking effort at showiness. The next line,
who also may be classed as figurantes, are plainly to be distinguished
by their natty air of sauciness and a noticeable clipping-off of the
super-abundant clothing that encumbers the latest additions to the
corps. The coryphees, though, are radiant in glittering, close-fitting
silver mail, and there is acquired grace in their actions, and a
high haughtiness in the toss of their heads. The premieres everybody
understands and recognizes, who has once seen them pirouette on their
toes or slam around in a wild ecstasy of dancing delight that would
give anybody else a vertigo and lead to numerous and possibly serious
dislocations. Well, all these were whispering or prattling together,
in the way of the scene-shifters, who went around reckless of their
language, with sleeves rolled up and anxious faces and questioning
eyes turned upon all whom they encountered there. It struck me, as I
gazed upon this almost naked and highly interesting ballet, that if the
moon had no atmosphere, as those who know best claim, the costumes of
these gay and giddy girls were airy enough to stock it with a pretty
extensive and healthy one. Out of this jumble of scenery and from the
midst of these jostling characters the start was made for the moon.
There was no carriage, no cartridge, no load in the cannon. Her trip as
a trip was a most undisguised and diaphanous fraud. While _King Pin_,
the _Prince_, the _Professor_, and the rest were arranging themselves
in a happy tableau behind the second "flat" bang! went a gun fired by
one of the supers, across the stage flew several "dummies" or stuffed
figures in the direction of the roof, the scene opened and lo the jolly
crowd were in Moonland. _King Pin_, _Prince Caprice_ and _Microscope_
were there together, as fresh and fair as if they were accustomed
to making two-hundred-and-eighty-thousand-mile trips. The monarch
of the moon, _King Kosmos_ (W. A. Mestayer), after having summoned
his retinue of Selenites--the same long-robed, pillow-stomached and
pasteboard-eared crew who had died behind the scenes a few minutes
before from an over-stroke of punning--and having things explained to
everybody's satisfaction, came forward and fell on the several necks
of the terrestrial visitors, was punched in the paunch, by the _King_,
enough times to set all the Moonites into roars of laughter, and then
they all joined in stretching their necks and rasping their throats in
a welcoming chorus to their guests.

[Illustration: ADAH ISAAC MENKEN.]

It was unfortunate for the visitors that _King Kosmos_ had a beautiful
little princess of a daughter called _Fantasia_ (Miss Gracie Plaisted),
with a voice that rippled and rolled in music, earthly as the bulbul's
notes and celestial as the songs of the spheres; and, of course,
foolish little _Caprice_ had to go and fall in love with her and sing
innumerable sweet songs to her, all of which only got poor old _Pin_
and his friends into all sorts of trouble. This they finally managed
to get out of by returning to mother earth in a gorgeously-appointed
flying ship, as grand as Cleopatra's galley. Before decamping, however,
Moonland was visited in every part, and its gardens of silver-tinged
foliage, its crystal palaces, that made pale Luna's light more
brilliant still, its icy mountains with mass of frostage, in and
about which the ballet wound in the graceful rhythm of "Les Flocons de
Niege," were all taken in, and notwithstanding an occasional hitch in
getting the panorama around, everything in this new and gleaming sphere
was really glorious for a first-night visit.

[Illustration: MILLIE LA FONTE.]




CHAPTER VII.

IN THE DRESSING-ROOM.


These same people who appear grotesque, and out of the pale of ordinary
every-day existence on the stage, are nearly always the most unromantic
and realistic-looking folks in the world when you meet them on the
street. The extraordinary metamorphosis they go through to arrive at
an appearance suitable for presentation before the foot-lights is a
secret of the dressing-room. In the privacy of this carefully guarded
apartment street clothes are laid aside, and what is more wonderful
still, faces, eyes, and hands and lower limbs, too, very frequently,
are subjected to processes that produce the most remarkable results.
Anybody who has seen Nat Goodwin, of "Hobbies" reputation, will
readily understand that it takes a pretty extensive transformation
to change his appearance from that of the man to that of _Prof.
Pygmalion Whiffles_, the eccentric character that makes "Hobbies"
the laughable and popular play that it is. Mr. Goodwin is young--not
more than twenty-four--but I saw him slip out of his youthfulness
into the bald-headed, red-wigged and merry old professor one night in
almost as short a time as it takes a boy to fall through a four-story
elevator shaft. I accompanied him to his dressing-room one night. He
had just a few minutes to get ready, and was in proper shape in time
to make his appearance at the upper entrance, amid the crash that
always accompanies his first appearance in the play, and gives him an
opportunity to make some remarks about _Maj. Bang's_ dog, which has
ripped his "ulster" up the back. Well, Goodwin went to work the moment
he was inside the door. Off came the everyday clothes, and in a jiffy
on went the one white and black stocking that will be remembered by all
who have seen "Hobbies." The shirt, coat, pantaloons, linen duster and
hat that forms the rest of his toilet, were carefully laid upon a side
table. The shirt was flapped over his head in a second, the pantaloons
went on like lightning and then bending towards a looking-glass he
dipped his fingers in red and black color boxes, and soon had the
necessary painting done upon his face. The velvet coat followed the
making-up of the face; then the torn linen duster, finally the red wig
with its charming bald spot, was clapped upon his head; the white hat
was gracefully tilted over it, and with a call to the man who played
_Arthur Doveleigh_ for his cane and an "I'll see you later" to his
visitor, he bounded up the stairs, and the next moment, as I left the
stage door, I could hear the hand-clapping and the howls of delight
with which a crowded house was greeting their favorite.

[Illustration: BALLET GIRLS DRESSING-ROOM.]

The great value of the art of making-up, as the preparation for
participation in a play is called, both in the matter of painting the
face and costuming, will be understood when the story told by Maze
Edwards, who was Edwin Booth's manager during the tour of 1881-2, is
recited. * * * The company got to Waterbury, Connecticut, ahead of
their baggage. When the hour for the performance arrived the baggage,
consisting of all their costumes and paraphernalia was still missing.
The manager was in a terrible plight; but I will let him tell his own
story as he told it to a newspaper reporter a short time after the
occurrence.

[Illustration: EDWIN BOOTH.]

"When I found the baggage, with the costumes, had not arrived," said
Edwards, "I was just going to throw myself into the river. Then I
thought I would go and tell Mr. Booth about it and bid good-bye to some
of the people who had always thought a good deal of me, before killing
myself. To my astonishment Mr. Booth took it as coolly as you would
take an invitation to drink. He said, inasmuch as the people were in
the hall, he would make a few remarks to them about the accident, and
then they would go on and play three acts of "Hamlet" in the clothes
they had on. And so it was fixed up that way. Well, the thought of
_Hamlet_ in a short-tailed coat and light pants almost made me sick,
and when Mr. Booth came upon the stage, looking like an Episcopal
minister, with a Knight Templar's cheese knife that he borrowed,
I couldn't think of anything but _Hamlet_. I forgot all about his
clothes, and I believe if he had only had on a pair of sailor's pants
and a red flannel fireman's shirt that the people would only have seen
_Hamlet_. I tell you he is the greatest actor that ever lived. The
people sat perfectly still, and seemed wrapped up in Booth. That is,
they were when they did not look at the other fellows. But when they
took _Laertes_, with a short, ham-fat coat on, a pair of lah-de-dah
pants and a pan-cake hat, it seemed to me I could hear them smile. And
the _King_, _Hamlet's_ step-father, he was a sight. Imagine a king
with a cut-away checkered coat, a Pullman car blanket thrown over his
shoulder for a robe, and a leg of a chair for a sceptre, mashed on a
queen with a travelling dress and a gray woollen basque with buttons
on it. And think of _Polonius_, with a linen duster and a straw hat
with a blue ribbon on. Oh, it made me tired. _Ophelia_ was all right
enough. She had on some crazy clothes that she had been travelling
in, and we got some straw out of a barn and some artificial flowers
off the bonnets, and she pulled through pretty well. But the _Ghost_!
You would have died to have seen the _Ghost_. He had on one of those
long hand-me-down ulster overcoats with a buckle on the back as big
as a currycomb and the belt was hanging down on both sides. The boys
got him a green mosquito bar to put over it, and with a stuffed club
for a sceptre, he fell over a chair and then came on. I should have
laughed if I had been on my death-bed when he said to _Hamlet_, 'I am
thy father's ghost!' He looked more like a drummer for a wholesale
confectionery house, with a sort of tin skimmer on his head, and I
believe the audience would have gone wild with laughter if it had not
been for Mr. Booth. I don't believe you could get him to laugh on the
stage for a million dollars. He just looked at the _Ghost_ as though it
was a genuine one, and the audience looked at Booth, and forgot all
about the ulster and the _Ghost's_ pants being rolled up at the bottom.
It was probably the greatest triumph that an actor ever had for Mr.
Booth to compel the vast audience to forget the ludicrous surroundings
and think only of the character he was portraying. I wouldn't have
missed the night's performance for a thousand dollars, and when, at 10
o'clock, I heard the boys getting the trunks up-stairs, I was almost
sorry. The last two acts were played with the costumes, but they were
no better performed than the first. Still, I think, on the whole, I had
rather the baggage would be there. It makes a manager feel better."

[Illustration: M'KEE RANKIN.]

In the olden times, and in the days of the early American theatre,
the dressing-rooms were beneath the stage, and were by no means the
perfect and cozy places that are to be found in existence at present.
Hodgkinson, I think it was, who, during the last century built the
first theatre having dressing-rooms above and upon the stage. Later
improvement has removed the dressing-rooms, in first-class houses,
entirely from the stage, ample and neatly-furnished rooms being
provided in adjoining buildings. This change has been necessitated by
the demand made upon theatrical managers for greater stage room and
better opportunities than they had heretofore in keeping up with the
growing taste for extensive scenic representations with magnificent
appointments. The star of a company, male or female, always has the
best dressing-room the establishment affords, and it is generally very
close to the green-room. Minor performers share their rooms; and the
captain of the supers usually has an apartment beneath the stage where
he gathers his Roman mob, or marshals his mail-clad but awkward squad
of warriors. No better burlesque upon this ill-clothed, dirty-faced,
knock-kneed and ridiculous theatrical contingent has ever been
presented either in type or on the stage, than the character of the
Roman Lictor created by Louis Harrison in San Francisco, and afterwards
relegated to another performer in "Photos." The story is told that
Harrison having been cast for the part of a lictor in a tragedy in
which John McCullough took the leading role, he grew offended, having
higher aspirations than mere utility business, and determined to make
the part funny and, if possible, spoil the scene. When he came on
the stage, he was in war-paint, his face strewn with gory colors and
intermingling black; he had on the dirtiest costume he could find, with
a battered rusty helmet, and carried the insignia of his office so
awkwardly, while his knees came together his toes turned in, and his
general attitude was that of a man in the third week of a hard spree.
He brought the house down, spoiled the play and was discharged for
making too much of a success of the part. But this is a digression, and
we must hurry back to the dressing-room.

[Illustration: THE THREE VILLAS.]

The most difficult part of the actor's work preliminary to going on
the stage is to make-up his face. By the judicious use of powder and
paint, and a proper disposition of wigs, beard, etc., the oldest man
may be made to assume juvenility and the youngest to seem to bend
with the weight of years. Wigs are to a great extent reliable, but
the old fashioned false beard is clumsy and apt to make the wearer
feel dissatisfied with himself and the rest of the world. But the old
fashioned beard is going out of style, and gray wool stuck on the face
with grease is generally used. I can recall vividly how a beard of
this sort worn by poor George Conly, the basso, while singing the part
of _Gaspard_ in "The Chimes of Normandy," while with the Emma Abbot
troupe last season, struck me as the perfection of deception. It always
requires a dresser to put on one of these beards in anything like a
satisfactory manner.

An old actor of the "crushed" type who has been almost forced off the
stage and into running a dramatic college, by the young and pushing
element in the profession, in an interview had with him lately in
Philadelphia, remarked, as he looked with evident interest upon the
crowds in the street: "I like to study faces. To my mind it is the most
absorbing study in the world--that of men's faces. You see, the thing
has more interest for me than for the run of men even in my profession,
because I'm an enthusiast in a certain sense. I belong to the times
when the study and make-up of faces was mighty important in the
theatrical line. It wasn't such a long time ago, either; but the times
have changed since then, until now there seems to be almost no effort
at all to make-up and look your part."

"It must be a great deal of trouble to make up every night."

"Oh, but, my boy, look at the result! Go down to the theatre, where
they still do it, and if only five years have elapsed between the acts,
see how it is shown on every face on the stage."

"It is difficult to make-up well, is it not?"

"Well, no," said the actor, lighting a fresh cigar and assuming a more
confidential pose, "the rules are simple enough, and with a little
practice, almost any amateur could learn to make up artistically if he
has any eye for effect. Some parts, like _Romeo_, _Charles Surface_,
_Sidney Darrell_ or _Claude Melnotte_, require very little make up for
a young and good-looking actor. The face and neck should be thoroughly
covered with white powder, and the cheek bones and chin lightly touched
with rouge, which should not be too red. Then, as the lover ought
to look handsome, he should draw a fine black line under his lower
eye-lashes with a camel hair brush and burnt umber. This makes the eyes
brilliant. I'm sure it isn't much trouble to make up that way."

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT.]

"Other characters are harder, though?"

"Oh, immeasurably so. But to make a maturer man, like _Cassio_, _Iago_,
_Mercutio_, _John Midway_ or _Hawksley_, it requires only a little
more work. After the actor has laid on his powder and rouged his face
pretty heavily--for men are commonly rather red-faced--he must take
his brush and umber and trace some lines from the outer corners of
the eyes, and other lines down toward the corners of the mouth from
the nose. In short, he must make the 'crows' feet that are visible in
all men who have lived over thirty years in this tantalizing world of
ours. Then the chin should be touched with a little blue powder, which
makes it look as if recently shaved. These precautions will make the
most juvenile face look mature. If he has to go further, and look like
old age, as in such characters as _Lear_, _Virginius_,--for, as I said
before, _Virginius_, was an old man,--_Richelieu_, _Sir Peter Teazle_,
and so on, more work is necessary. Heavy false eyebrows must be pasted
on, and the eye-hollow darkened and fairly crowded with lines. Wrinkles
must be painted across the forehead, furrows down the cheeks, downward
lines from the corners of the mouth, and (very important) three or
four heavy wrinkles painted around the neck to give it the shriveled
appearance common to old age. The hollow over the upper lip should
be darkened, and also the hollow under the lower lip. This gives the
mouth the pinched and toothless look. A little powdered antimony on
the cheeks makes them look fallen in and shrunken. Then tone the face
down with a delicate coating of pearl powder, and you'll have as old a
looking man as you'd care to see."

"How does it feel?"

"At first your face feels tightened, and the muscles don't play easily,
but after a few grimaces it comes out all right. It's a great relief to
get off, however, after three hours' work."

"It must cause rather mournful forecasts when a man looks on his own
face made up for the age of, say, eighty years."

"Not so bad as when he makes up for a corpse, however. I'll never
forget the first glance I had at my face after it had been made up
for _Gaston's_ death scene, when playing the "Man of the Iron Mask,"
in '62. It positively appalled me, sir, and I lay awake all that
night thinking of it, and dreamed of myself in a coffin for a month
afterward."

"How is it done?"

"Well, it varies slightly. You see, such characters as _Lear_,
_Virginius_, _Werner_, and _Beverly_ are before the audience some time
before they actually die, and therefore, their faces cannot be made
very corpse-like; but _Mathias_ in 'The Bells,' _Louis XI._, _Gaston_
and _Danny Mann_ are discovered dying when the scene opens, or are
brought in dead, so that their faces can be made extreme. For the last
series the face and neck should be spread with prepared pink to give
it a livid hue in places. Then put a deep shading of powdered antimony
under the eyebrows and well into the hollow of the eye, on the cheeks,
throat and temples. This is very effective, as it gives the face that
dreadfully sunken appearance as in death. The sides of the nose and
even the upper lip should also be darkened, and the lips powdered blue.
Then the face will look about as dead as it would three hours after a
real death."

"In the make up of grotesque faces do they use false noses and chins?"

"Very rarely. Usually the method is to stick some wool on the nose
with a gum and mold it in whatever shape you will; then powder and
paint it as you would the natural nose for grotesque or comedy parts.
Paste is put on with gum, instead of wool, sometimes. Clowns have
to encase themselves fairly with whiting, and they find this trouble
enough without building up noses or cheeks. Grotesque artists have to
work hard with their faces as a rule, but they are often repaid by
discovering neat points. Many of our best Dutch and Irish comedians owe
their first lift to a lucky make-up."

[Illustration: THE LATE ADELAIDE NEILSON.]

"I suppose there are types of the representation of different
nationalities?"

"Well, a gentleman is usually made-up the same, no matter where he
may be supposed to belong, but the caricature is usually one of the
well-known make-ups. A Frenchman has to be powdered with dark rouge,
and has his eyebrows blackened with dark ink. All dark characters, as
mulattoes, creoles, Spaniards, and so on, are done with whiting and
dark rouge, with plenty of burnt cork and umber."

"Is much work necessary on the hands?"

"In witches it is of great importance that the hands and arms should be
skinny and bony. This is usually done by a liberal powdering of Dutch
pink, and painting between the knuckles with burnt umber. Painting
between the knuckles, you see, makes them look large and bony. But this
sounds a good deal like ancient history, now, does it not? The art is
falling into disuse, my boy, and I've no doubt the time is not far off
when we shall have youngsters playing old men with signs on their back
reading, 'Please, sir, I'm eighty years old,' while their faces are as
fresh as daisies."

"To what do you attribute this tendency."

"Laziness. The theatrical age of to-day is a wonder to me. The entire
profession wants to star. An actor plays old men now simply for a
living, while he matures his plans for his contemplated starring
tour. An actress does old women heavies or juveniles only until she
can find a capitalist who will enable her to star, and none of them
seem to take any pride in the minor parts. Hence, they don't take the
trouble to make up artistically, and the stage is robbed of its chief
charm--realism."

[Illustration: DRESSING AN ACTRESS' HAIR.]

The looking-glass and the pots of paint and boxes of powder upon the
shelves of the dressing-room are as important adjuncts of the play, and
even more important, sometimes, than the huge boxes and trunks filled
with costumes that are found in the same place. They hold their place
amid the diamond necklaces and brilliant bracelets of the prima donna,
the cheaper jewels of the dramatic artiste and the crowns of kings and
helmets of warriors. Their power is great, and that power is fully
recognized by all who are within the domain of dramatic art. And the
actor or actress, the prima donna and the swell tenor, all generally
make it their business to attend to their own beautification in this
way themselves. Nearly all star actors carry male servants who are
known as dressers, and all prominent actresses have maids who accompany
them to the theatre and these help to complete the artiste's toilets.
Formerly there were barbers and hair-dressers, as well as other
specialists, attached to places of amusement, and whose business it
was to shave an actor or dress a head of hair before the performance.
Many establishments retain these yet, but they are not as numerous or
as well-known as they were before the days of travelling combinations.
Apropos the theatrical hair-dresser there is quite an interesting story
told. One of this class fell in love with a popular actress he was
frequently called upon to beautify. He confessed his devouring passion
on his knees and she laughed him to scorn. More than that, she
insisted on his continuing his ministrations to her and made him the
butt of her heartless gibes while he was devoting himself to enhance
her cruel loveliness. The iron entered his soul and he swore vengeance.
One night, when he had to prepare her for a most important part, he
surpassed himself in the splendor of her crowning decoration. Having
finished he anointed her golden locks with a compound of a peculiarly
fascinating aromatic odor, which so attracted his callous enslaver's
notice that she asked him what it was.

"It is a mixture of my own, Madame," he replied. "I call it the last
breath of love."

The actress remarked that she would call him a fool, and he bowed and
withdrew. A few minutes later, when she appeared behind the foot-lights,
instead of the roar of applause which she expected, she was hailed
with a tempestuous scream of laughter. Her discarded lover had had his
revenge. He had dyed her golden locks with a chemical which turned pea
green as soon as it was dry. She dresses what hair she has left herself
now, while he is boss of a five-cent shaving emporium, never speaks to
any lady but his landlady, and has a Chinaman to do his washing.

If there is a ballet or a burlesque crowd or comic opera chorus in
the theatre the scenes in their rooms will be of a more diversified
nature. The girls in addition to making their faces pretty, must have
their limbs so shapely that no fault can be found even by the most
cavilling of the gentlemen who crowd up behind the orchestra while the
house holds a host of female attractions. The rage for limb exhibitions
rendered it necessary that some means should be devised to hide the
calves or poorly turned ankles of the creatures whose limbs are
displayed. Happily the symmetricals, as padded tights are called, were
hit upon and now you cannot find an unsightly piece of underpinning in
any combination, and even the poor ballet girl who does page's parts
or helps to make up a crowd for $6 a week, will, if she has sense and
taste, go early to the dealer in theatrical goods and have symmetricals
made to suit the exigencies of her case. These artistic accessories of
feminine fictitiousness are leggings or tights woven in such a manner
the thickness of a deficient thigh, the pipe-stem character of a calf,
are filled out with silk and cotton into shapefulness and beauty that
Venus de Medici herself would not be ashamed to make a display of. I
heard a story about an operatic artist who for a long time refused to
play parts demanding the exhibition even of a fraction of a limb, and
all because her lower members were too attenuated to attract anything
else but ridicule. Lately she has found her way to the pad-maker's and
now can present as pretty an ankle and as round a calf to the audience
as sister artists who have more flesh and blood in their composition.
Men as well as women patronize the pad-maker and any actor of the
mashing persuasion who may have had to keep his bandy legs in wide
pantaloons heretofore can now burst forth upon the sight of his adored
in all the gorgeous loveliness and perfection of an attractive anatomy.

[Illustration: MARIE ROZE.]




CHAPTER VIII.

WITHIN THE WINGS.


[Illustration: IN THE GREEN ROOM.]

The green-room, except where stock companies prevail--and there are not
more than three or four in the United States now--has passed out of the
shadow of the rigorous rules that sometime ago were posted here, and
that had to be observed. By this I do not mean that rules have been
entirely done away with behind the scenes; but travelling companies are
governed by their own rules, carry their own stage manager, prompter,
etc., and the only persons that local green-room rules could apply to
now-a-days would be the four or five poorly paid young girls who, in
their desire to go on the stage and become stars, start and generally
stay at the bottom of the ladder, where they are paid pitiful salaries
and continue to "mash" wandering minstrels, or the equally poorly paid
and badly treated members of some male chorus. These girls usually
spend the lengthy leisure a performance gives them sitting demurely
on chairs in the corner of the green-room until the call-boy sends
them word that they are needed to fill up some silent gap in the
entertainment. Beyond these there are few to be found in the green-room
during a performance. Occasionally an actor will drop in to pace the
floor as he mumbles his lines over, or an actress, who is tired from
standing in the wings, or on the stage, will hurry in and drop to rest
on the sofa. The side scenes, or "wings," as they are termed, are the
places in which to find almost everybody who has any business around
the stage of a theatre. Under the stage, in a "music-room," the
musicians may be found when they are not harassing the audience with
some unanimously discordant air.

[Illustration: A GREEN-ROOM TABLEAU.]

[Illustration: GETTING THEIR "LINES."]

Gathered together in the entrances and within easy call of the
prompter, whose business it has recently become to mind everybody
else's business, are the performers, male and female mingling together,
waiting for their cue to go on. The absence of chairs makes it
necessary for all to remain on their feet, and only when a friendly
"property" that may be used for sedentary purposes is within reach will
a weary actor or actress take possession of it. Enough has been said
already about the general aspect of affairs behind the scenes and the
groupings in the green-room. Now, let us turn our attention to some
of the individuals and incidents of this remarkable little world. The
stage prompter is, probably, as important a gentleman as we could first
run against. The prompter stands at his desk at one side of the stage,
with a book of the play before him during the entire performance. It is
his business to furnish the players with their lines when memory fails
them. He must be quick to give the performer the exact word that has
thrown him off the track, and just as soon as an actor or actress looks
appealingly towards him he knows what it means--that the performer is
"stuck"--and he must run to their aid at once. His position is almost
as responsible as that of the prompter in the Japanese theatre, who
goes from one actor to the other, during the whole performance, and,
with a lantern placed up against the play-book, reads off the lines
which the actor is expected to repeat. He must be at the theatre
during the morning rehearsals; and he also writes out parts; changes
of scenes; makes lists of the properties or articles needed; and
altogether, his position is nothing like a sinecure. A rule of the
theatre, that in many places, has glided quietly out of existence, is
to the effect that nobody must lounge in the prompter's corner. But
they do. Many a fairy queen, with shining raiment and powerful wand,
loiters around to catch a glimpse of the few lines she has to speak,
while darling little princes in the nicest of tights, or pirates, or
bandits, with symmetrical limbs fully displayed, and the softest of
hearts beating under their corsets, get alongside of him, and because
they have had little parts to memorize, and have let them slip lightly
and swiftly beyond their recollection, tease the prompter to help them
regain the lost words.

[Illustration: MILTON NOBLES.]

A veteran prompter, who has evidently seen a great deal of the world
beyond the foot-lights, in giving his reminiscences, said--"Some actors
boast that they never stick. No matter if they have totally forgotten
their lines, they 'say something,' as they phrase it, and I have never
seen the difference noted by the audience yet. Once, while I was making
the rounds of the Pacific coast, twenty years or so ago, I went to see
a performance of 'Macbeth,' by the company of a friend of mine in San
Francisco. It was a tough company, a band of regulation old-time barn
stormers, and the fellow who played _Macbeth_ was so far gone in the
dreamy vacancy of whiskey that he 'gagged' his part more than once in
the first scene. Finally, in the middle of his second, he was also
dead lost. He hesitated, but only for a moment. Then he threw his arms
around _Lady Macbeth's_ waist, and drawing her to him, coolly said:
'Let us retire, dearest chuck, and con this matter over in a more
sequestered spot, far from the busy haunts of men. Here the walls and
doors are spies, and our every word is echoed far and near. Come, then,
let's away! False heart must hide, you know, what false heart dare
not show.' They made their exit in a roar of applause, and I thought,
'There's a man who has no use for a prompter, sure enough.'

[Illustration: IMPROVING SPARE MOMENTS.]

"All actors are not like him, however. Raw actors are the prompter's
horror. The debutante is another. She will forget every line the
moment she strikes the stage, and be so nervous, moreover, that she
will not be able to repeat those the prompter reads to her. I remember
one young lady who thought she had a mission to play _Juliet_. She
made her appearance, supported by a country company, and lost every
line, as usual. We prompted her through her first scene, somehow. When
the balcony scene was on, her mother stood on the ladder behind her,
reading her speeches word for word, which she repeated after her. But
the old lady was a heavy weight, and the step-ladder was no longer in
the flower of youth; so, in the middle of the farewell, it gave way.
The old lady was tumbled forward against the ricketty staging of the
balcony, and it fell against the set piece that masked it in from the
audience. So _Juliet_, mother, balcony, and all toppled down on
_Romeo_, and by the time he was taken from the wreck he was as mournful
a lover as the play makes him out to be."

[Illustration: AN ACTRESS' USEFUL HUSBAND.]

Looking around among the players again we find a fairy leaning up
against some object with her lithe limbs crossed, and she putting in
the spare time allowed her in doing crochet or some kindred work.
Perhaps she is knitting a purse for some distant lover, or maybe it is
a tiny pair of socks for the little baby that is waiting for her at
home. For many of these youthful, charming, and heart-breaking fairies
and fair burlesquers are married, and frequently their husbands are in
the same company. A story is told of a well-known and popular actress
who brings her husband with her to the theatre every night, and while
the old man--a dear, innocent and uncomplaining old fellow sits in the
side scenes nursing baby with a bottle, on one knee, and holding an
English pug on the other, while the mother is out before the admiring
public throwing her arms about some strange _Romeo_, and clinging to
him with all the warmth and affection of the fair _Juliet's_ young love.

[Illustration: MAKING LOVE IN THE SIDE-SCENES.]

The story is told of a New York fireman, who made real love, and too
much of it, on the stage. According to the rules of the fire department
there, a member of the department is kept on duty at every performance
in the theatres. While there he has nothing to do except respond to
any call of fire, and give his valuable services in suppressing it.
But it is very seldom that his services are called into requisition,
and consequently the position at the theatre is much sought after by
the gallant fire laddies. As a rule, the members of the department
are a fine body of men, but those detailed at the theatres are very
fine-looking and consequently very popular with the actresses at the
theatres. The natural result is that the fireman soon has a "mash," and
having unrestricted liberties perambulates through the building without
hindrance. Becoming well acquainted with the nooks and corners he is
enabled to snatch a few moments' sweet converse with the object of
his affections, and in a place where they can commune with one another
uninfluenced by the presence of anyone. But recently the regular
disappearance of the fireman of a certain theatre at a stated time
became the subject of comment among the attaches, and another female
admirer of the gallant fireman, actuated possibly by jealous motives,
watched him receding from view and followed his footsteps silently.
In an unfrequented nook among the ruins of ancient mountains, pillars
and broad fields--on canvas--stood the object of her disappointed
affections, embracing the fair form of her rival and giving vent to the
pent-up feelings of his heart, while she, coy, and dove-like, stood,
blushingly receiving the compliments which were being showered upon
her. This was too much for the slighted fair one, and the place that
knew the loving hearts for many evenings is now vacant and ready for
the occupancy of another loving couple.

Another fire lad of the same department thought he smelt fire one night
just before the performance began. He pried around through every nook
and corner in the fulfilment of his duty, and at last was satisfied
that he had found the place. He was not sufficiently well posted to
know that he had located the incipient blaze in one of the ladies'
dressing-rooms. So in he popped without giving any warning. The girls
were dressing for the ballet and already one of them was in condition
to get into her symmetricals. Imagine the consternation of the girls at
sight of the apparition in blue clothes, cap, and brass buttons. They
hastily got behind towels and other articles within reach and set up a
screech that came near creating a panic among the audience. The fire
boy did not wait to find the origin of the smoke, and it took all the
persuasive powers of the manager and company to keep the girls from
swearing out warrants for burglary or something of that kind against
the luckless laddie.

[Illustration: M'LLE GERALDINE AND LITTLE GERRY.]

There are a great many other ludicrous things that have happened
behind the scenes, and but few of which have reached the public. The
legend about Atkins Lawrence's lion skin, which he wears when he
plays _Ingomar_, and which was so heavily sprinkled with snuff as a
preservative against moths that when _Parthenia_ began to woo the
barbarian chief and leant lovingly upon his shoulder she almost sneezed
her head off before the alarmed audience, is told of Mary Anderson. The
Milwaukee _Sun_ printed something about the same actress, that whether
true or false is equally good. The writer says:--"It is well known that
Miss Anderson is addicted to the gum-chewing habit, and that when she
goes upon the stage she sticks her chew of gum on an old castle painted
on the scenery. There was a wicked young man playing a minor part in
the play who had been treated scornfully by Mary, as he thought, and he
had been heard to say he would make her sick. He did. He took her chew
of gum and spread it out so it was as thin as paper, then placed a chew
of tobacco inside, neatly wrapped it up, and stuck it back on the old
castle. Mary came off, when the curtain went down, and going up to the
castle she bit like a bass. Putting the gum, which she had no idea was
loaded, into her mouth, she mashed it between her ivories and rolled it
as a sweet morsel under her tongue. It is said by those who happened to
be behind the scenes, that when the tobacco began to get in its work
there was the worst transformation scene that ever appeared on the
stage. The air, one supe said, seemed to be full of fine cut tobacco
and spruce gum, and Mary stood there and leaned against a painted rock,
a picture of homesickness. She was pale about the gills, and trembled
like an aspen leaf shaken by the wind. She was calm as a summer's
morning, and while concealment like a worm in an apple, gnawed at her
stomach, and tore her corset strings, she did not upbraid the wretch
who had smuggled the vile pill into her countenance. All she said, as
she turned her pale face to the painted ivy on the rock, and grasped a
painted mantel piece with her left hand, as her right hand rested on
her heaving stomach, was, 'I die by the hand of an assassin.' Women
can't be too careful where they put their gum."

[Illustration: SOBERING A COMEDIAN.]

Actors are not fonder of or indulge more in liquor than any other
class. Occasionally you will find a member of the profession whose
passion for the ardent will lead him far enough to disappoint the
public. Joe Emmet's indiscretions in this direction gave him world-wide
notoriety, and for this reason only do I mention them here. He is a
favorite everywhere and for that reason the entire public regretted his
one fault among so many agreeable virtues. But Joe has occasioned many
comical situations in the side scenes while actors and manager were
plying him with seltzer, bromide of potassium and other soberatives in
order to get him to begin or finish a play, when there was a jammed
house waiting to applaud him at every turn in "Fritz." But Emmet has
crossed the Rubicon again and once more his worldful of friends rejoice
in his happiness and growing fortune. He is not the only one in the
profession who has been addicted to the cup that cheers and inebriates
at the same time. I have heard that a pretty and popular soubrette must
have her glass of brandy between the acts, and that an actor already at
the top of the ladder is succumbing to the seductive and rosy liquid.
Still liquor has not made nearly the number of victims in the ranks of
the theatrical class that it has in other professions, and it is only
alluded to here to illustrate a comical incident that once occurred
during the engagement of a burlesque combination in Kansas City. It was
not known until six o'clock at night that the comedian of the comedy
was in a sad state of intoxication somewhere through the town. Parties
were sent out at once to look him up. They did not succeed in finding
him until 7:30 when they hurried him to the theatre. It was a terrible
job to get him into his stage-clothes and to keep his head steady and
his eyes open long enough to allow his friends to make him up for his
part. By the time this had been done the impatient audience shouted and
whistled and stamped so violently that at last the manager was obliged
to ring the curtain up. Mr. Comedian was in the wings reluctantly
accepting the remedies provided by his friends, while they waited for
his cue to go on. He was fairly sober when he reached the presence of
the audience and although he betrayed his condition slightly, few in
the house knew enough about the trouble that had been taken with him
in order that the manager might keep his word with the public. It is
needless to add that Mr. Comedian was very sorry, and sick when he got
sober.

[Illustration: M'CULLOUGH AS "VIRGINIUS."]




CHAPTER IX.

STAGE CHARMS AND OMENS.


The night the Southern Hotel burned down in St. Louis, I was standing
at the ladies' entrance when Kate Claxton, whose presence is now always
regarded in a city as ominous of a conflagration, came down through the
fire and smoke in her night dress and was hurried across the street
and out of danger by a gentleman who lent her his overcoat while she
made her way to another hotel. There were seventeen lives lost that
terrible night, and a young and beautiful actress--Frankie McLellan--in
a frantic effort to escape the flames, jumped from a three story window
and had her face marked for life by the fall. Just as soon as people
got over the horror of the first news of the catastrophe, gossip turned
to theorizing and from that diversant stories were told concerning the
prominent people who figured in the calamity. Then it became known
that Milton Nobles had lost a brand new pair of lavender trousers, in
the pockets of which were several hundred dollars that "The Phœnix"
had brought him that same evening. Then too, the narrow escape of Rose
Osborne, of the Olympic stock company, was recited; but prominent above
all, Miss Kate Claxton's presence in the hotel was dwelt upon, and, as
she had already fairly earned the unanimous reputation that has since
followed her, her name became part of the history of the conflagration,
as it has been associated with every conflagration that occurred in
her vicinage since. She is rather ungallantly and untruly styled the
"Fire Fiend," and all sorts of predictions are made about the theatre
she plays in, the hotel she has her rooms at, and the very town and
county in which she is temporarily domiciled. But Kate Claxton, who by
the way is Mrs. Stevenson, is not the first person in her profession
to have acquired such an unenviable reputation. Thomas S. Hamblin, an
actor and manager of the early half of the present century, who came
from England in 1825 to star in "Shakespeare," was followed by fire
even more relentlessly than Miss Claxton has been. No less than four
theatres burned under his management, and it was generally said when he
undertook to open or run a place of amusement that from that moment it
was fated to the flames. Hamblin figures conspicuously in the history
of the Bowery. He died in 1854.

[Illustration: KATE CLAXTON.]

The sailor who braves the dangers of the deep is always blindly
superstitious. There is something in the vastness of the ocean, in its
misty immensity, in its magic mirage, its wonders and its terrors,
that puzzles the mind and sets fire to the imagination of poor Jack,
and even bewilders his superior officers. The artist who undertakes to
sail before the public and to amuse it for a living is quite as much
at sea as your genuine Jack Tar. He or she finds himself or herself
on a veritable ocean, beset by dangers, surrounded by unknown and
fickle conditions of atmosphere and phenomena. All the logic of the
dry land is of no avail in such a situation. The relations of cause
and effect are broken up. Magic is the only excuse for the arrival of
the unexpected. The seemingly impossible in results is always the most
possible. Once embarked in the dramatic sea, no one can tell where the
voyage may end, or what it may bring forth. A shipwreck on auriferous
rocks may prove a success.

Triumph may come from ruin; happiness from danger, and the longest
voyage and the richest freight are often given the most leaky and
shallow craft. There is no knowing which boat will float the longest on
the dramatic sea--the best equipped or the most shaky and flimsy. So it
is no wonder that actors are all superstitious. They have no compass
even to guide them when beset by the varying winds of public opinion.
The impossible is always sure to meet them; so they are always on
the lookout for magic, and depend in secret quite as much upon their
simple necromancy as upon their talent or their study. Every star
has, so to speak, a fetich that insures success, or goes through an
imaginary formula to invoke prosperity. The public is constantly under
the influence of the voudoo arts of actors, and incantations and mystic
signs rule the world of Thespis and enslave the public without its
knowledge. Some of these fancies and formulæ of intelligent actors are,
indeed, more simple and childlike than those that characterize poor
Jack of the briny deep.

Imagine, for instance, an actor like John McCullough refusing to
approach a theatre except by one route (the one he first takes, no
matter how roundabout) from night to night, for fear of breaking the
charm of success. Imagine, too, a lot of other trifling things that
beset him--signs, omens and the like. If he stumbles when he first
enters a scene it is a sign of good luck. If he receives faint applause
in the first scene he is sure to succeed, amid thunderous plaudits, in
the last; if Forrest's sword, used in the Gladiator, becomes dim by
damp air or other cause, it is a sign of lack of fervor in the audience
of the evening, while, on the contrary an extraordinary brightness of
the weapon is a sure sign of great success. If a negro should cross his
path while he is on his way to a performance, that is a never-failing
omen of a prosperous engagement, while to encounter a cross-eyed woman
(not a man, for strabismus in that sort of creature does not affect
John, probably because it is only the woman he looks at), is a sure
sign if not of failure, at least of annoyance to himself and coldness
on the part of his audience. The Macbeth music is, of course, his great
bugbear, as it is with all actors.

[Illustration: THE LATE VENIE CLANCIE.]

No success could attend any of his performances if any one were to hum
or whistle the witches' chorus in the wings or the dressing-rooms. Any
poor, inexperienced devil who might try it would find John, and, in
fact, all the company, wrestling with him, and himself lying in the
gutter at the back door before he had warbled through two bars of the
fatal music. This is, in the opinion of every actor, a sure invocation
of disaster. Under the malign influence of this melodic devilishness
either the theatre will be burned down (for, if we are to believe the
actors and stage tradition, every theatre that was ever burned in this
country was put under the spell of fire by some singer or whistler of
the witches' chorus), or salaries will not be paid, or the manager will
bring his season to an early and disastrous end. Something ill is sure
to happen if the Macbeth music is heard, and John shares that belief in
common with even the humblest Roman of them all who parades his scraggy
shanks nightly in ridiculous contrast with the heroic legs of the
tragedian.

John T. Raymond, while believing faithfully in all the regular signs
and omens of the stage, has his own special claims to "hog 'em," using
the stage vernacular. He has only one suit of clothes for _Colonel
Sellers_, and would not have any other under any circumstances. It
would change his luck from good to bad.

"Remark," he says, "there never was a success continued where a play
was entirely re-costumed. The public interest began to flag always in
some mysterious way from the time the new dresses came on. It is the
old story of old wine in new bottles. The wine will burst the bottles.
There's going to be no burst with my wine. I stick to my old clothes as
long as they will stick to me."

[Illustration: CATHERINE LEWIS.]

He has also a lucky $5 gold piece, which he always carries in his
vest pocket on the stage, whatever part he is playing, and when he is
nervous and fearful of lack of appreciation he has only to rub his
magic coin to make everything lovely. In getting out of bed he will
not slip out with the left foot first, lest he may have bad luck all
the day. His dreams decide his acceptance of a play, and when he is
puzzled between two methods of working up a "point," he is perfectly
satisfied to settle it by the toss up of a cent.

Joe Jefferson is also impressed with the magical potency of old
clothes. He has never changed his first "Rip Van Winkle" suit, but
he has been forced to have it patched and renovated. His hat, wig,
beard and "trick" rifle--the one that falls to pieces after his long
sleep--are the same that he used when he made his great success in the
part in London fifteen years ago. He mislaid this gun last season,
just before he played at the Fifth Avenue Theatre, and was forced to
get another. That engagement was his first failure, and a bad one.
He has found the old rifle, and, the charm being now complete again,
he has opened the season with a very successful week in Brooklyn.
Joe would break an engagement in any theatre if a dog were to walk
across the stage at the first rehearsal. That is a sure sign of death,
loss, or fire, as every actor knows. A cat parading the coulisses or
walking with dainty tread across the scene, however (even at an evening
performance), would be hailed by him and colleagues with delight as an
unfailing sign of prosperity, health and renown.

Sothern felt that he was sure to fail with his audience if his valet,
by an accident, handed him his wig before his coat was on, while, if he
put it on his head at the last moment, and not before the voices of the
call-boy was heard summoning all on for his first scene, he had "got
'em dead to rights."

Florence, like Raymond, carries a lucky $5 gold piece, and believes the
charm of his popularity reposes in the fact that he always puts on his
costumes in a never-varying order, and never changes his old brushes
and articles of "make-up." He, too, is afraid of the necromantic powers
of the evil-omened dog, and believes in the magic spells of fairy
grimalkin. If the orchestra plays a waltz between the first and second
acts of his piece, success is more likely than ever to seal his efforts
of the evening.

Mrs. Florence, on the contrary, does not believe in old clothes, but
quite the reverse. She thinks, however, that birds (canaries, or any
other variety) are sure to bring bad luck, and will not play in the
company where there is a cross-eyed girl. The cross-eyed man doesn't
count. If the prompter should tear a page of manuscript accidentally,
or, moreover, if the page should contain the name or a speech of the
character she is acting, there is no use in hoping for a great furor
that evening, for there will be nothing but disappointments in the
making of points and contretemps in the management of the stage. If the
prompter turns out the foot-lights or a row of border-lights, swift
disaster is sure to come on the theatre. This was never known to fail
in her experience.

Booth will never go on the stage, no matter how late or hurried he may
be, without first pacing three time across the green-room, mumbling
over not the first, but the very last speech of the piece he is to play
that night. Then he walks on, sure of his triumph. If he should fail
in his formula, the audience would be cold and unappreciative. It has
been his custom to have _Desdemona's_ couch set in the second entrance
on the stage, left in the last scene of "Othello." According to the old
style, the couch should be set in the centre door, behind curtains,
exactly in front of the audience. Booth believes in signs, however,
and should he consent to have _Desdemona_ slumber in any other place
than U. E. L. he would lose his charm in the character of _Iago_.

[Illustration: CHANFRAU.]

Frank Chanfrau believes in the efficacy of old clothes. He has only one
suit in _Kit_, and his success is unvarying in that piece. He hates
dogs on the stage, believes in cats, knows birds are bad luck, is
convinced that a house decorated in a prevailing hue of decided blue
is sure of ill-fortune, and shudders at the mere mention of the Macbeth
music. He has steered clear of all these evil influences during his
stage career, and has been uniformly successful.

Oliver Doud Byron has a special claim in addition to the regular
superstitions of his class. He has a certain tattoo mark of India ink
on his right forearm. When he rolls up his sleeves for his "terrible
combat" in the last act of "Across the Continent," he must uncover that
mark without looking at it, or his fetich is not complete, and the
charm of his prosperity will be broken.

Charles Thorne believes his success lies in the fact that he always
steps on the stage in the first scene with his right foot foremost, and
keeps it in advance until he has delivered his first speech. This done,
he is safe and sure of a "walk over" before his critics. Once or twice
he has inadvertently stepped out with his left, and on these occasions
he has failed, or the piece has fallen flat. Such an accident happened
him on the first night of "Lost Children." Manager Palmer, of the
Union Square, who has also become a victim of stage superstitions, is
fearful of Thorne stepping out with his terrible left foot on a first
night, just out of retaliation for some slight or disagreement. Thorne,
possessing this magic power for good or evil, not at his fingers'
ends, but at the ends of his toes, is a terror to the establishment,
and on first nights is treated with distinguished consideration by the
entire company. No one gets in his way when he is about to make his
stage entrance on a first night, lest he may be thrown out of step and
advance with sinister effect upon the scene. Thorne's right foot once
put forward, every one breathes freer and plays with greater vim. The
critical point of every new play, therefore, lies, though the critics
may not think it, in the malign or favorable magic of Thorne's feet,
according as he puts them forward.

Adelaide Neilson was as superstitious as all actresses are. Her
evenly-balanced beauty and brains did not free her from the slavery of
omens. She carried about with her, ever since her first London success
in _Juliet_, a lucky silken rag--a dingy, straw-colored drapery--which
she insisted upon hanging over the railing of the balcony when _Juliet_
breathes her complaints to the moon. Without this, the fair Adelaide
was sure she could not succeed in the scene in any part of the world.
She brought the silken rag across the water with her again and again.
The drapery was somewhat faded and tattered from long service in the
two worlds, but she still clung fondly to it, and said it was possessed
of all its olden magic.

Lotta sleeps three hours by daylight, but if she should wake up ten
minutes before the usual time (just the time to rush to the theatre)
the fates are against her, and she will not do well that evening. If
any one whistles in a dressing-room within her hearing while she is
donning her costume, she is sure the person is "whistling away her
luck," and the house is going to be bad.

Fanny Davenport would not, for any consideration, miss rearranging
her wig before the green-room mirror just previous to going on the
stage. She has a regular, unvarying formula to go through to guarantee
success. She first presses her hands to the sides of her head to be
sure the springs are firmly fixed (although she has just had her
dresser make that sure in her dressing-room), then gives the "bang"
three smart tugs, puffs up the frizzes with a nervous twitch of her
fingers, presses the entire wig down from the top of her head, gives
her silken trail a final kick to induce it to unfold itself, and then
rushes pell mell to the stage in answer to the alarming cry of "stage
waiting." Without this formality she would not be herself the whole
evening.

[Illustration: FANNY DAVENPORT.]

Clara Morris believes in the efficacy of a small medicine vial, which
she carries (empty) through every scene, she says, through habit,
though it is fair to presume, through superstition. Without the vial
she could not get along.

Neilson also had a vial--a special one--which she insisted should only
be used for _Romeo's_ poison potion. She would handle no other, and has
been known to have the bill changed because the vial was mislaid, and
would not allow "Romeo and Juliet" to be put up for performance until
it was found.

Frank Mayo thinks his magic lies in an old fur cap and a hare's foot,
for rouging, which he had ever since he has been on the stage.

[Illustration: DION BOUCICAULT.]

Boucicault trembles and is sure of failure for any one of his pieces
which is greeted with commendation by all the actors without a
dissenting voice. If the players condemn his piece at the rehearsals,
he is sure the audience will like it. But in any event no play of his
can be a success unless he tears off the cover to the first act, and
makes away with the title page at the last rehearsal.

Maude Granger has a certain magic smelling-bottle which she puts to her
nostrils just before going on the stage.

Maggie Mitchell attributes her success in "Fanchon" to an old pair of
shoes which she wears in that piece.

Eliza Weathersby hates birds, doesn't like whistlers, and has for her
special charm an embroidered rose, which always appears on her dress or
tights, according to the style of part she may be playing.

Paola-Marie, the little Parisienne of Grau's opera bouffe, has a pet
pug dog which she always fondles at the side-scenes for luck, before
going on the stage. This, too, to the intense horror of the rest of the
company, who think dogs in theatres bad luck.

Sara Jewett imagines that she commands success and enslaves her
audiences by walking through her positions on the stage in her first
scene every night before the curtain is rung up for the play.

[Illustration: MRS. BOUCICAULT.]

The managers, too, share this weakness of their actors. None of them
would change their ticket-boxes for fear of a change of luck. When they
move they take their ticket-boxes with them. Wallack has the same boxes
that were used at the doors of his father's theatre years ago, and
Daly has those which received the pasteboards during his first season
of success. When Tony Pastor removed from the Bowery to Broadway he
took his boxes over there, and has them with him now in his tour over
the country. With all our modern innovations and realism, we have not
made any inroads on the folk-lore of the drama. The theatre is still
fairy-land, and its creatures, though not fairies themselves, commune
with them closely.

Actors like many other people have a perfect horror of the number
thirteen. The only man in the profession who openly defies the
superstition attaching to this number is John R. Rogers, the manager
of the "My Sweetheart" Company, of which Minnie Palmer and Robert E.
Graham are the star features. Rogers, it is said, not only got together
a company of thirteen people, in which the thirteen letters of Mr.
Graham's name stood out in uninviting prominence; but he began his
season on Friday, the 13th of the month, and in other ways wooed a dire
and speedy fate for himself and his people; but good luck appears to
have attended him, and he is still defiant as ever of the terror-laden
and ominous number. In contradistinction to Mr. Roger's success, the
failure of another combination may be given. Frank L. Gardner, who has
thirteen letters in his name, brought out the play "Legion of Honor,"
whose title is composed of exactly thirteen letters, and had Samuel
W. Piercy,--who died last winter in Boston, while supporting Edwin
Booth in his tour,--for leading man, and by doing so freighted down
his enterprise with another ill-starred feature, for Mr. Piercy's name
contained thirteen letters. The play failed, and the superstitious
people of the profession immediately attributed the failure to the
presence of too many baker's dozens in the organization. A certain
well-known prima donna whose engagement was to begin on the 13th of
the month went to the impresario and begged to have the date changed;
she said she knew she would have no luck if she began to sing on the
date provided for her; besides that her friends had persuaded her that
fortune would only frown upon her if she made her first appearance on
the 13th. The 12th was Friday, another day fraught with frightful evil
to the singing and acting fraternity, so rather than make an unlucky
beginning, the prima donna opened on the 11th, and sang two nights for
nothing, although two nights' warbling under her contract meant an
amount of money that would make a poor man's head swim.

The New York _Dramatic News_ in a late number contained a funny story
about Harry Courtaine and John E. Ince, both gentlemen well and
favorably known in the profession. Mr. Ince had solemnly professed
his non-belief in good or bad luck, after which he was invited by Mr.
Courtaine to walk with him. The _News_ tells the story in this happy
style: To a query as to where he was going, Mr. Courtaine replied that
he was to make an engagement for the coming season with a gentleman
now awaiting him at the Union Square Hotel, "and I want a witness," he
said, "but I wouldn't have one of those superstitious fellows with me
for all the world. They make me ashamed of myself with their besotted--"

Mr. Courtaine stopped suddenly and turned deadly pale. "Here, here!"
he cried, "cross fingers, quick!" and seizing Mr. Ince's hand, he
crossed the forefinger of his own over it while a tramp with one arm
slouched by them. "I saw him over my left shoulder, too," murmured Mr.
Courtaine. "Dear me! dear me! how exceedingly annoying!"

"What's the matter?" asked Mr. Ince, whom the performance of his
companion had thrown into a profound amazement. "Don't you feel well?
What is it?"

[Illustration: MAUD GRANGER.]

"Nothing," replied Mr. Courtaine, in some confusion. "A slight twinge
of my old gout. Those fellows on the square are enough to give a man
the colic, with their eternal talk about Jonahs, unlucky houses,
hoodoo managers and the like. I don't know anything I detest more than
superstition," said Mr. Courtaine, with indignant fervor. "I think it
is a lower and more debased vice than habitual drunkenness. If there
was a law passed to make it a capital offence, I'm d--d if I wouldn't
serve as hangman without asking a cent pay."

At this juncture an old woman, enveloped in an odorous combination of
rags and liquor, seized Mr. Courtaine by the sleeve and rolled two
eyes, which squinted across at each other almost at right-angles,
towards the sky, as she whined:--

"Please, good gentleman, a penny to buy a poor widow bread. Only a
penny, dear, handsome gentleman, and God go with you."

Mr. Courtaine dove into his pocket to respond to this artful appeal,
and as he did so, glanced at the old woman. Then he began a performance
which plunged his companion in a stupor of wonder. Crossing his
forefingers, he deliberately spat upon the pavement over them, and then
turning in a circle, repeated the expectoration at each of the four
points of the compass. This accomplished, he mopped the perspiration
from his pallid brow, and shuddered visibly. "It's Friday, too," he
muttered. "D--n it all! I might have known it."

"Known what?" asked Mr. Ince.

"Let's go down to Theiss's and get a beer," said Mr. Courtaine abruptly
and irrelevantly.

"You'd better see your man first," suggested the prudent Mr. Ince.

"Oh, no. He can wait; besides I think it's too late to catch him in
now. I'll hunt him up to-morrow. Come along."

The libation performed, Mr. Ince suggested that they should drop in
at the matinee at Pastor's. Mr. Courtaine favored a stroll. Mr. Ince
suggested that his programme would turn out the most pleasing one,
and Mr. Courtaine said: "Hold on; we can easily see;" and producing a
half-dollar he flipped it, asking, "What is it?"

"Heads," answered Mr. Ince.

"It's tail," remarked Mr. Courtaine. "So the stroll will turn out best.
Let's be moving."

They moved along, and as they passed a fruit stand Mr. Ince remarked:
"Hello! there are some strawberries."

"Ze first-a of ze season a-Signore," said the Neapolitan nobleman, who
presided over the destinies of the stand, with a bow of invitation, "ze
very first-a, only feefty cent-a ze box-a."

"By Jove!" cried Mr. Courtaine, picking out three of the finest and
leaving the box a quarter empty, "now, then, Ince, make a wish."

"What for?" demanded Mr. Ince, making a raid on the box on his own
account.

"Never mind," replied Mr. Courtaine, evasively, "only whenever you eat
new fruit or vegetables make a wish."

And he posted the strawberries into his oratorical orifice, and walked
off, leaving the fruit vender foaming at the mouth, and snarling
"_corpo di diavola!_ zese actor 'ave-a ze sheek-a of a policeman. Oh!
_Madonna mia!_ Eef zem boys 'ad not steal-a my club!"

The stroll was varied by no further incidents except that Mr. Courtaine
walked a block around to avoid passing a drunken man, and nearly lost
his life snatching a cast horseshoe up from in front of a street-car.
As they turned homeward Mr. Courtaine's eyes singled out a lady
approaching with an armful of bundles, and he commenced a species of
maniac gavotte, waving his hands at her and shouting: "Go into the
street. Hey! Hey! look out for the ladder!"

And when in spite of his adjurations, Mrs. Courtaine--for the lady was
none other--walked under a ladder leaning against the side of a rising
building. He sank upon a row of beer kegs and fastened a cumulative
grip on Mr. Ince's arm, exclaiming--"Did you witness it wasn't my
fault? I warned her in time, didn't I?"

       *       *       *       *       *

"Do you remember my wife walking under a ladder yesterday?" observed
Mr. Courtaine to Mr. Ince on the morrow.

"Yes, what of it?"

"Well, when we got home we found the cat had killed the canary
bird--killed and ate it all but the tail feathers," said Mr. Courtaine
triumphantly. "Now what do you think of that? Here come around to
Theiss's or we'll have those fellows around us with their infernal
low-minded superstitions again."

[Illustration: PORTIA AND SHYLOCK.

    PORTIA:--Nay, if the scale do turn
        But in the estimation of a hair,
        Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate.

                _Merchant of Venice, Act IV., Scene 1._
]




CHAPTER X.

NOT DOWN IN THE BILL.


Some very queer things happen behind the scenes, and even on the stage
in full view of the audience--occurrences that often mar the pleasure
of the play for the people in the auditorium, and raise the wrath of
the performer. Anything out of the usual run of business that occurs
behind the scenes throws the players off the track frequently. There is
a great deal of work going on at all times, out of sight or knowledge
of the audience, and a slight disturbance may be an interruption
fraught with dire disaster. There are actors and actresses in the
wings, often, completing the memorization of their parts--"winging"
parts, as it is called--or it may be going over their lines again, if
they are not confident that they have full possession of them; and to
these people, of course, an interruption is a matter of the merest
moment. Actors and actresses have always been credited with good
memories, but even the best memory may sometimes be thrown off the
track, and, indeed, sometimes is, by an untoward or startling incident.

[Illustration: LIZZIE M'CALL.]

Speaking of memory, reminds me that an actor once memorized an entire
newspaper, when they were smaller than now, in a single night. The
actor was a man named Lyon, who was playing small parts through the
country. An English actor committed the contents of the London _Times_,
advertisements and all, within a week, besides studying a new part for
every night. The feat was accomplished on a wager. An actor in London,
sat through a play, and although he had never seen it before, could
repeat every line and word of it when he got home. He sat down and
wrote it out, and the copy thus written was used for the performance of
the play in New York. Many readers will recollect the New York couple
prosecuted by the Madison Square Theatre Company for selling copies of
"Hazel Kirke" to companies that had no right to play the drama. The
wife, it was explained, went to the theatre, sat the play out a few
times, and dictated the lines to her husband from memory. She had been
an actress. There are many other remarkable instances of swift and
retentive memories in the profession, but one of the most astonishing
of all these feats is what is known as "winging a part," an expression
I have used before in this chapter. This consists in going on the stage
without having studied the lines at all, the actor carrying the book in
his pocket, and pulling it out every time he gets out of sight of the
audience, studying the part in the "wings" until he receives his cue to
go on again. This method of going through the part continues during the
performance, the actor speaking the lines to the best of his ability,
and following the text as closely as possible.

Returning to the subject of the chapter, there are several instances
of actors and actresses, prominent and minor, receiving their death
strokes on the stage while playing. Mistress Woffington, known as
"lovely Peggy," while playing at Covent Garden, London, May 3, 1757,
fell to the stage at the end of the fourth act of "As You Like it,"
in which she was playing _Rosalind_, and after muttering "O God! O
God!" was carried home to die after a lingering confinement of three
years to her bed. George Frederick Cooke received his death stroke in
New York, while playing _Sir Giles Overreach_, and Edmund Kean died
in England under similar circumstances. The elder Kean and his son
Charles were playing together, the former having the role of _Othello_,
the latter that of _Iago_. The date was March 25, 1833. The event, says
a chronicler, created great excitement among play-goers; the house
was crammed. Kean, who had worn himself out with dissipation, went
through the part, "dying as he went," until he came to the "Farewell,"
and the strangely appropriate words, "Othello's occupation's gone."
Then he gasped for breath and fell upon his son's shoulder, moaning,
"I am dying--speak to them for me!" And so the curtain descended upon
him--forever. His wife had separated from him. "Come home to me; forget
and forgive!" he wrote her after he had been conveyed to Richmond. And
she came. An hour before he died he sprang out of bed, exclaiming,
"A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse!" and he expired with the
dying words of Octavian, "Farewell, Flo---- Floranthe!" upon his lips.
This was on May 15, 1833, and he was buried in Richmond churchyard.
Instances of the same appalling kind might be multiplied, but it is not
the purpose of the writer to cover the stage with gloom, or to cause
death to masquerade any more than is absolutely necessary before the
foot-lights. More interest will be felt, and the heart will be lighter
and the appetite better, if we turn to the ludicrous incidents that
have caused audiences ready to shed tears over a tragedy, to turn from
the lachrymose attitude to one which might be represented as laughter
holding both his sides.

[Illustration: "PIN UP MY SKIRTS."]

Sol Smith tells a funny story about his earliest experiences on the
stage; how he stole in through the back door before the performance,
and hid in what he thought was a chest, but which turned out to be the
coffin used in the play that evening, and when it was carried out on
the stage young Smith was so terrified that he pushed up the lid and
bounded out, to the surprise of both actors and audience. N. M. Ludlow,
who was Smith's partner in the theatrical business, relates a somewhat
similar incident about himself.

The awkward position of a "masher" who gets into the "wings" by some
hook or crook is often extremely laughable. I saw a serio-comic
vocalist--as the songstresses of the variety stage are named--astonish
a well-dressed and admiring gentleman who was lounging around at
his leisure,--having in some mysterious manner passed the stage
door-keeper,--by handing him a pin and remarking, "Pin up my skirts."
The man's eye-glass was knocked out of place by the impertinence of the
demand, but he took the pin and obeyed the lady's command, and this,
too, notwithstanding a second female in tights, was near by, who could
have done the job a thousand times better. It was the sweet singer's
little joke, though.

[Illustration: ANNIE PIXLEY AS "M'LISS."]

Charlotte Cushman and her sister were playing in Trenton, New Jersey,
one night. The bill announced was "Romeo and Juliet," with Miss Cushman
in her afterwards famous impersonation of the male character and her
sister as _Juliet_. The ball-room of the town which was used as a
theatre, when occasion required, was sadly lacking in scenery and
properties. The sisters went to work, however, and succeeded in getting
together everything they needed for the performance, except the balcony
in the garden scene. After looking around they found an old bed-quilt,
patched, and abounding in numerous colors; it was arranged that a
colored bell-boy from an adjacent hotel should, while stationed in the
side-scenes, out of view, hold up one end of the quilt while the fair
_Juliet_ supported the other. The boy was on hand in the evening, and
everything went swimmingly until towards the end of the scene, and in a
most tender part, the darkey stuck his head out from the side and said:
"I say, Miss Cushing, I hear my bell ringin' an' Ize obliged to let my
side ob de house drap!" He dropped the quilt; and not only the balcony,
but "the house"--the audience--came down, and that brought the scene to
an abrupt and ridiculous end.

[Illustration: THE CALL-BOY'S REVENGE.]

Another occasion that was a source of infinite amusement to an
audience that had been fully worked up to tragic interest in the
play of "Hamlet," occurred at Baltimore, Maryland, a short time ago.
The actor cast for _King Claudius_ had given some offence to the
call-boy--treated him badly in the presence of the company--so the
boy made up his mind to have ample revenge. He got a needle, fitted a
long piece of thread in it, and then placed it in the cushion chair
that answered for the _King's_ throne, in such a way that when the
time arrived, by a simple jerk of the string he might move the needle
skyward. He waited until _Claudius_ was supposed to be most interested
in the scene before the players, when jerk went the thread, and _King
Claudius_, with an alacrity unbecoming royalty, bounded out of his
chair as quickly as if he had suddenly sat down upon the sharp end
of a lightning rod. He dropped his sceptre and shouting "Ouch!" and
nursing the injured part of his anatomy, jumped and danced around as
if he had just caught sight of _Hamlet's_ father's ghost. There was an
interruption to the scene that the audience filled in with boisterous
laughter. After the act the _King_, instead of sending one of his
officers or guards for the call-boy, as befitted his exalted station,
went scouring around the scenery himself, muttering the wildest threats
and applying names to that poor boy that he could hardly have won for
himself if he lived to be a thousand years old. It is hardly necessary
to say that the call-boy did not wait around until the end of that act.

Mrs. Farrel, who was an actress of ability in her time, after being
hissed in the part of _Zaira_, the heroine of "The Mourning Bride," and
particularly in the dying scene, rose from the stage, and, approaching
the foot-lights, expressed her regret at not having merited the
applause of the audience, and explained that she had only accepted the
part to oblige a friend, and hoped she would be excused for not playing
it better. After this little speech she once more assumed a recumbent
position, and was covered by the attendants with a black veil.

On one occasion a danseuse was listening to the protestations of an
elderly lover, who was on the point of kissing her hand, when, as he
stooped down his wig caught in the spangles of her dress. At that
moment she was called to the stage, and made her appearance before the
audience amid general laughter and applause; for on the front of her
dress was the old beau's wig or scalp, hanging like a trophy from her
belt. The applause was renewed when a bald head was seen projecting
from the wing in search of its artificial covering. Stories, too, are
told of imprudent admirers, who, having excited the jealousy of the
stage carpenter, did not take the precaution to avoid traps, and as
a consequence found themselves shot up into the "flies," or hastily
dropped down to the dismal depths below the stage.

[Illustration: THOS. W. KEENE.]

It is a very common trick to let people through a trap-door. I was
present several times in the theatre when victims were carried down
to the black and uninviting space below the stage. At a benefit given
to a popular treasurer in St. Louis, a well-known young man who was
in the liquor business was prevailed upon to appear in the programme
and was put down for a lecture on temperance. The house was crowded
that night, and P---- H---- was there in all the glory and wealth of his
wardrobe, fully prepared to entertain the audience for half an hour or
so. One of the boys had had the pleasure--so he termed it--of hearing
H---- read his lecture through, and he gave the others the cue for
the fun. The lecturer's table was placed just at the edge of a trap,
and a trick candle, one such as is used in pantomime, and that keeps
on growing taller and taller as the clown in vain tries to get within
reach of the flame, stood at one side of the piece of furniture. H----
went on the stage bowing his neatest and smiling his sweetest. He was,
of course, received with "thunders of applause," and storms of the
same kind interrupted him at frequent intervals. At last the place was
reached where the fun was to commence. "Bang!" went a gun in the air,
the thunder rolled, there was red fire, and the floor parted. Down went
H---- slowly, and up went the candle. He was so terror-stricken that he
could do nothing, and was left to grope his way through the darkness to
the stairs. The language he used when he once more found himself among
his friends was stronger and less elegant than were the phrases of his
lecture. He appears at no more benefits.

A young society man now of Cincinnati was treated in the same way, a
trap having been left open upon which he stepped in the middle of a
play in which he took the leading part with a company of amateurs, when
down he went, to the dismay of his friends, the delight of the young
fellows who had "put up the job," and to his own horror. In Leadville,
Col., a serio-comic singer who had incurred the displeasure of one of
the stage hands, was retiring into the side scenes bowing gracefully
and kissing her hand to the audience, when suddenly down went one of
her pink-clad limbs through an open trap, and her moment of triumph was
turned into one of ridicule, and in addition to her mortification the
leg was broken. Such tricks are always dangerous and more frequently
are followed by mourning than fun.

[Illustration: EMMA THURSBY.]

Powell, the English actor, sought in vain one night for a "super" who
was wont to dress him, but who on this occasion had undertaken to play
the part of _Lothario's_ corpse in "The Fair Penitent." Powell, who
took the principal character, shouted in an angry tone for Warren, who
could not help raising his head from out the coffin in which he was
lying, and answering, "Here, sir." "Come, then," continued Powell, not
knowing where the voice came from, "or I'll break every bone in your
body!" Warren, knowing that his master was quite capable of carrying
out the threat, sprang in his fright out of the coffin and ran in his
winding-sheet across the stage.

[Illustration: LILLIAN RUSSELL.]

The dying heroes and heroines of the present day wait to regain
animation until the curtain has fallen, when they reappear in their
own private characters at the foot-lights. A distinguished tenor,
Signor Giuglini, being much applauded one night for his singing in
the "Miserere" scene of "Il Trovatore," quitted the dungeons in which
_Manrico_ is supposed to be confined, came forward to the public,
bowed, and then, not to cheat the executioner, went quietly back to
prison again. A much more modern story of the confusion of facts with
appearances is told, and with truth, of a distinguished military
amateur, who had undertaken, for one occasion only, to play the part
of _Don Giovanni_. In the scene in which the profligate hero is seized
and carried down to the infernal regions, the principal character could
neither persuade nor compel the demons, who were represented by private
soldiers, to lay hands on one whom, whatever part he might temporarily
assume, they knew well to be a colonel in the army. The demons kept at
a respectful distance, and, when ordered in a loud whisper to lay hands
on their dramatic victim, contented themselves with falling into an
attitude of attention.

[Illustration: JOE JEFFERSON.]

Jules Janin, in the collection of his _feuilletons_ published under
the title of "Histoire de la Littérature Dramatique," tells how in
the ultra-tragic tragedy of "Tragadalbas," an actor, in the midst of
a solemn tirade, let a set of false teeth fall from his mouth. This
was nothing more or less than an accident which might happen to any
one. Lord Brougham is said to have suffered the same misfortune while
speaking in the House of Lords. But the great tragedian showed great
presence of mind, and also a certain indifference to the serious nature
of the work in which he was engaged, when he coolly stooped down,
picked up the teeth, replaced them between his jaws, and continued his
speech.

[Illustration: ROLAND REED.]

At some French provincial theatre, where a piece was being played in
which the principal character was that of a blind man, the actor to
whom this part had been assigned was unwell, and it seemed necessary
to call upon another member of the company to read the part. Thus the
strange spectacle was witnessed of a man supposed to be totally blind,
who read every word he uttered from a paper he carried in his hand.

[Illustration: LIZZIE WEBSTER.]

At an English performance of "William Tell," the traditional arrow,
instead of going straight from _Tell's_ bow to the heart--perforated
beforehand--of the apple placed on the head of _Tell's_ son, stopped
half way on the wire over which it should have travelled to its
destination. Everything, however, succeeded in Rossini's "William
Tell," except the apple incident, as everything failed in "Dennis's
Appius," except that thunder which Dennis recognized and claimed as his
own when he heard it a few nights afterward in "Macbeth." Yet it has
never been very difficult to represent thunder on the stage. One of the
oldest theatrical anecdotes is that of the actor, who, playing the part
of a bear, hears a clap of stage-thunder, and mistaking it for the real
thing, makes the sign of the cross.

[Illustration: LAWRENCE BARRETT.]




CHAPTER XI.

THE ILLUSIONS OF THE STAGE.


A person can gain an idea of the extent of stage decorations and the
possibility of scenic illusions in the old English theatre by reading
a description of the theatre as it existed in its poverty of costume
and bareness of paint in the Elizabethan era. Rousseau has left a
description of the Paris Opera House as he saw it and it will be found
interesting to all who are acquainted with the methods and the absolute
magnitude of the theatre of the present day. It must be remembered,
however, when considering the smallness of the stage described by
Rousseau, that it was blocked up on both sides, as was the early
English stage, by the aristocratic section of the audience, who sat in
rows by the side of the singers while the plebeian music lovers stood
up in the pit. It was in exactly the same condition as the English
stage, when actors and actresses were interrupted and even insulted by
their lordly patrons;--as when Mrs. Bellamy one evening as she passed
across the stage at Dublin was kissed upon the neck by a Mr. St. Leger,
whose ears the actress boxed there and then; Lord Chesterfield rose in
his box on this occasion and applauded; the entire audience followed
his example and at the end of the performance St. Leger was obliged by
the viceroy to make a public apology to the actress.

"Imagine," writes Rousseau about the Paris Opera, "an inclosure
fifteen feet broad, and long in proportion; this inclosure is the
theatre. On its two sides are placed at intervals screens, on which are
curiously painted the objects which the scene is about to represent.
At the back of the inclosure hangs a great curtain, painted in like
manner, and nearly always pierced and torn, that it may represent at
a little distance gulfs on the earth or holes in the sky. Every one
who passes behind this stage, or touches the curtain, produces a sort
of earthquake, which has a double effect. The sky is made of certain
bluish rags, suspended from poles, or from cords, as linen may be seen
hung out to dry in any washerwoman's yard. The sun, for it is seen here
sometimes, is a lighted torch in a lantern. The cars of the gods and
goddesses are composed of four rafters, secured and hung on a thick
rope in the form of a swing or see-saw; between the rafters is a coarse
plank, on which the gods sit down, and in front hangs a piece of coarse
cloth, well dirtied, which acts the part of clouds for the magnificent
car. One may see toward the bottom of the machine two or three foul
candles, badly snuffed, which, while the greater personage dementedly
presents himself swinging in his see-saw, fumigate him with incense
worthy of his dignity. The agitated sea is composed of long angular
lanterns of cloth and blue pasteboard, strung on parallel spits, which
are turned by little blackguard boys. The thunder is a heavy cart,
rolled over an arch, and is not the least agreeable instrument heard at
our opera. The flashes of lightning are made of pinches of resin thrown
on a flame, and the thunder is a cracker at the end of a fuse. The
theatre is, moreover, furnished with little square traps, which opening
at the end, announce that the demons are about to issue from their
cave. When they have to rise into the air, little demons of stuffed
brown cloth are substituted for them, or sometimes real chimney-sweeps,
who swing about suspended on ropes, till they are majestically lost in
the rags of which I have spoken."

[Illustration: J. K. EMMETT.]

This sad condition of theatrical illusions cannot be regarded otherwise
than strange when it is recorded that decorations were of a higher
order in the reign of Louis XIV. Saint-Evremond is authority for the
statement that the sun and moon were so well represented at the French
opera during this period that the ambassador of Guinea, who assisted at
one of the performances, was decoyed into leaning forward in his box
and religiously saluting the orbs. Had Rousseau lived to the present
day, the wonders and mysteries of our stage would have made his great
heart leap within him. Modern art and modern mechanism have brought
stage representations so close to nature that the scenes seem to be
small sections, either of country or city, mountain or vale, lifted
from the face of the world and placed in all their beauty at the
stage-end of the theatre. Managers do not fear to go to any length in
mounting plays properly, and there is nothing in the outer world that
defies reproduction in the mimic sphere. Steam is freely used; fire
rages fiercely through folds of inflammable canvas; the lightnings
flash; Hendrick Hudson and his men roll nine-pins in the Catskills, and
the low rumble of the thunder, as the balls rattle down from crag to
crag, is distinctly heard by the audience; poor, demented old _Lear_
cries to the winds to crack and blow their cheeks, and they do so to
his full satisfaction; there is genuine rain in the shipwreck scene of
"The Hearts of Oak;" a plentiful fall of the beautiful snow for "The
Two Orphans;" a perfect reproduction of a mountain rivulet for "The
Danites;" steamboat and railroad explosions of a realistic character
in everything; an almost horizonless sea for the great raft scene in
"The World;" and gorgeous coloring, rich furniture, choice bric-a-brac,
rare paintings and the Lord only knows what, for the thousand and one
melodramatic and society plays that are now flooding the stage. Then
there are gems apparently rich enough to have come from the treasuries
of Khedive or Sultan, and robes so redolent of royalty in color and
material that the female portion of the audience is almost driven to
distraction in admiring and coveting them. Little does the average lady
patron of the theatre imagine that the finery she covets is often the
product of the artiste's own needle, and that the gaiety and glory of
an actress's career--with hundreds of admirers pouring diamonds into
her lap, and hundreds of others feasting upon her charms, while many
hang with reverence upon the words that fall from her lips--is but
the merest of dreams; and that the sister whose professional successes
cause her to look upon the stage as a place of pleasure only, may
live in a tenement surrounded by a poor family to whose support her
life-efforts are devoted; that she has few admirers; that she is pure
as the fairest and purest woman in private life, and that her only
sacrifice is made to the art which she loves and to which she has
consecrated herself.

[Illustration: JOHN T. RAYMOND.]

There are but few who have not an exaggerated idea of the value of
everything they see upon the stage. It is true that many actresses are
rich enough to wear diamond necklaces, and to otherwise sprinkle their
persons with brilliants of the first water; but it is equally true that
many others are poor, and that the gems they wear come from the cheap
stock of articles kept in the theatrical property-room. An amusing
story is told by Olive Logan, who was an actress, about the false value
placed upon stage jewels.

"While I was fulfilling a round of theatrical engagements in the
South, during the war," says Miss Logan, "I was compelled by 'military
necessity,' to pack up my jewels and send them to Cincinnati. Of course
there were a number of stage trinkets in the bag as well as some little
jewelry of real value, but as it happened a fabulous idea had got
afloat of the value of my little trinkets, and I was offered large sums
for the carpet sack, 'just as it stood,' after I had packed it to send
it to Cincinnati.

"'I'll give you ten thousand dollars for it without opening,' said one
gentleman; 'I want those ear-rings for my wife?'

"'No,' I answered, 'no; those things were given me in France, and I
shouldn't like to part with them.'

"'Are the ear-rings in here?'"

"'Yes,' I answered.

"'And the bracelet?'"

"'Yes.'"

[Illustration: KATHERINE ROGERS.]

"'Fifteen thousand--will you?'"

"'No, no,' I answered, and the matter ended. I couldn't help laughing,
for truly I might have made a sharp bargain if I had wished. Somebody
would have been sold, and that somebody not myself. I returned to
Cincinnati after my trip to Nashville, and there found my effects
awaiting me in good order. One day in the Burnet House I was accosted
by a pleasant-looking gentleman, who informed me that he had taken
charge of the bag from Louisville to Cincinnati.

"'Did not Mr. ---- send it by express?' I asked.

"'No. I was coming up, and he thought it best to entrust it to me.'

"'I'm very much obliged to you,' I said.

"'Indeed, you have cause to be,' he said, good-naturedly. 'I give you
my word it's the last time I'll have on my mind the charge of fifty
thousand dollars' worth of diamonds.'"

After an English lady of rank returned from the continent, she found
her trunk robbed of its jewels. Detectives traced the jewels to a
London pawnshop, where they had been sold for $5. The thieves were
arrested, and when one of them was asked why he had been so foolish as
to sell nearly one hundred thousand dollars' worth of diamonds for $5,
he answered: "Why, yer honor, we never thought for a minute as how they
were real jewels; we just thought the lady was some play-actor woman,
and that the whole lot wasn't worth but a few shillings."

[Illustration: JOSEPHINE D'ORME.]

The trinkets are no more deceptive than are many other means employed
to astonish and gladden the public. The production of thunder, the
simulation of rain-fall, the fictitious roaring of winds, and the
multiplication of suns, moons and stars are among the numerous
illusions that give to the theatre that marvellous charm under whose
spell thousands are nightly placed and held. In the olden times these
effects were produced in a simple and by no means mystifying manner,
but late years have made them so perfect in their application that
none but the initiated can even begin to think out the solution of the
wondrous effects in which the stage now abounds. A new effect, such as
the enormous stretch of sea and sky to be found in "The World," is
something that dramatic authors and stage mechanics are always seeking
after and are glad to find. The revolving tower in "The Shaughran" was
a puzzle to everybody. Now there are hundreds of effects of this kind
with folding and vanishing scenes that are even more wonderful than
Boucicault's tower. Viewed from the wings the simplicity of the means
employed to produce these effects makes them absolutely laughable. They
shall be explained in this chapter.

Thunder-storms are common efforts at realism, and they are sometimes
simulated in a way that makes them appear to fall very little short of
nature. The earliest style of stage thunder was effected by vigorously
shaking a piece of sheet iron which made a rattling and ear-disturbing
noise. Even now when a show is "on the road" and a hall without the
usual first-class accessories must be used, the audience, and the actor
too, must be satisfied with sheet-iron thunder. The modern invention
is known as the thunder-drum, and it stands over the prompter's desk
where it can be easily reached by a long stick with a thick, soft
padding at the end--similar to the sticks used in beating bass-drums.
The thunder-drum consists of a calf-skin tightly drawn over the top of
a box frame. With this instrument the low rumbling of distant thunder
or the long roll of the elemental disturbance may be attained, and,
following the sharp rattling of the shaken sheet of iron and the flash
of ignited magnesium an effect is produced that completely awes the
simple citizen who knows nothing of the mechanism of the stage.

The prompter, too, who by the way is a most responsible person among
the individuals who populate the mimic world, has control of the rain
machine. This is a wooden cylinder, about two feet in diameter, and
four or five feet long. It is filled with dried peas which rattle
against wooden teeth in its inside surface, as the machine, which is
in the "flies," is operated by a belt running down to the prompter's
desk. This reminds me that I have used the expression "flies" several
times without explaining what is meant. The "flies" is a term used
to designate the scenery and spaces above the stage, and as there is
a great deal of it, it has as much importance in a theatrical sense
as any other part of the back of the house. Well, to resume the
explanation, the prompter has the rain machine in the "flies" fully
under control and can turn out any kind of a rain-storm the play
may require; if a swirl of the aqueous downpour is needed,--such a
manifestation of wrathy lachrymoseness as you find in a storm that
at intervals beats mercilessly against your windows and the side of
your house,--one good, strong, sharp pull at the rope will effect it.
Less atrocious efforts of the elements may be obtained with a slighter
exertion of muscle at the rope or belt. The wind machine is a very
necessary adjunct of these storm effects, and it is to be found in
every large theatre, furnishing "a nipping and an eager air" or one
of those howling blasts that make night desolate and day disastrous.
The wind machine may be moved to any part of the stage. Sometimes it
is behind the door of a hut through which snow is fiercely driven, and
at other times it may be in the side scenes, or any locality to which
or through which the storm is rushing. It is an awful funny thing to
the man at the wind machine to think of the cold chill he sends down
the back of the sensitive play-goer as the wind whistles across the
scene in which poor blind _Louise_, in the "Two Orphans," figures, or
that scene in "Ours" where _Lord Shendryn_ is at the mercy of the
pitiless storm. The wind that makes the warm blood frigid under such
circumstances is very easily constructed. A cylinder from which extend
paddles is set in a suitable frame and above its top is stretched a
piece of grosgrain silk. The silk is stationary, but the cylinder and
paddles are operated by means of a crank and sometimes by a "crank."
Swift motion produces woeful gusts of the windy article, and a steady
blast may be duplicated by patiently working the machine. When the
property-man is driven to the necessity of providing rain and wind in
theatrical districts that do not boast of modern appliances he obtains
a rain effect by rolling bird-shot over brown paper that has been
pasted around a hoop, and the wind is raised by swinging around a heavy
piece of gas-hose. This kind of thing is called "faking" the wind or
rain.

[Illustration: FERDINAND AND MIRANDA.

    MIRANDA:--If you'll sit down,
              I'll bear your logs the while.

                _Tempest, Act, III., Scene 1._
]

When real water is used on the stage to simulate rain, as in the
first act of the "Hearts of Oak," or "Oaken Hearts," as they at one
time tried to call a pirated edition of it, the effect is obtained by
carrying water to the stage lofts, during the day, where it remains
in a tank connected with a long piece of perforated pipe, back of the
proscenium border, and stretching across the stage. At night when
the proper time arrives the water is allowed to run into the pipe,
from which it of course falls in numerous small streams upon a rubber
tarpaulin that has been stretched below to receive it. So too in
mountain rivulets with "real water," as in "The Danites," a tank in
the loft must be filled daily with water to supply the nightly scene.
In all instances of this sort the effect is quite realistic, and never
fails to meet with a hearty appreciation by the audience.

[Illustration: LESTER WALLACK.]

The snow-storm is also usually a pleasing stage picture, and is brought
about in a most simple manner. White paper is cut into very small
pieces, which are carefully treasured by the property-man, whose duty
it is to see to everything of this kind in and around the stage, and
who regards the manufacture of a snow-storm as a very slow and tedious
piece of work. When the snow is ready it is placed in what is called
the snow-box, a long narrow affair with slats on the bottom leaving
room enough for the pieces of paper to sift through, when the box is
given a swaying motion. The contrivance is swung over the stage by
means of two ropes, and is operated by a third leading to one side
of the stage. When the chilled heroine comes upon the scene amid a
terrible fall of snow and draws her thin garments tightly over her
shoulder, while she shivers, the snow-box up above is swinging to
and fro, and the white flakes are only bits of paper frauds that the
property-man or an assistant will carefully sweep up after the scene or
act, to do duty again the following night and for many a night to come.

[Illustration: CLARA MORRIS.]

The snow-storm and the other illusions described above are only a
fraction of the things the property-man has to look after and keep in
order. He has charge of everything upon the stage and is responsible
for everything except the scenery. When a play is running that requires
handsome appointments, it is his business to provide. Within the past
decade or so of years it has become the custom to borrow expensive
furniture from generous local dealers who are often satisfied with
the simple and easy remuneration of a line or two acknowledging the
loan, in the programme; or a certain price is paid for the use of the
furniture during the run of the play; or the set is purchased outright
from the dealer and repurchased by him at a reduction when the theatre
is done with it. Nearly all theatres, however, are supplied with
suitably handsome furniture for an ordinary society play, and it is
only when gorgeousness is aimed at that managers are obliged to borrow.
Pistols, knives, helmets, lances, battle-axes, canes, cigars, money,
pocket-books, the vial from which Juliet takes the fatal draught,
the marble or majolica pedestals, the rich vases, sunflowers such
as are used in the æsthetic play of "The Colonel," the paste-board
ham, the tin cups, or cut glasses that the characters drink from,
fire-place, mantel, and looking-glass--these, and many other articles
the property-man furnishes the players, either placing the stationary
fixtures on the stage, or sending the call-boy to the performers
with the articles they require. The check-book that the rich banker
draws from his pocket when he hands $100,000, more or less, over to
somebody else in the play, the quill or pen he writes the check with,
and the bottle out of which he dips the imaginary ink, all come from
the property-room, and go back to it again after the act is over. A
list of the articles required for a play is furnished the property-man
when a play is to be put on, and these articles he must have when the
prompter calls or sends for them. Sometimes the property-man forgets,
and then there is trouble in the camp. It is related that having
forgotten to provide a Juliet with her vial of poison, in time, the
article being called for as the actress was about to go on the stage,
the property-man snatched up the first thing that looked like a vial
that he got his eyes on. It was a bottle from the prompter's desk, and
when Juliet placed the awful draught to her lips and took a pull at
the bottle, she discovered to her horror that she had swallowed a dose
of ink. The actress, who tells the story herself in her autobiography,
said, she wanted to "swallow a sheet of blotting-paper," when she made
the inky discovery.

[Illustration: HELEN DINGEON.]

I find in Miss Logan's book from which I have before quoted in this
chapter, the following funny inventory of properties furnished a new
lessee of the Drury Lane Theatre, London: "Spirits of wine, for flames
and apparitions, £12 2_s._; three and one-half bottles of lightning,
£--; one snow-storm, of finest French paper, 3_s._; two snow-storms
of common French paper, 2_s._; complete sea, with twelve long waves,
slightly damaged, £1 10_s._; eighteen clouds, with black edges, in good
order, 12_s._, 6_d._; rainbow, slightly faded, 2_s._; an assortment of
French clouds, flashes of lightning and thunder-bolts, 15_s._; a new
moon, slightly tarnished, 15_s._; imperial mantle, made for Cyrus, and
subsequently worn by Julius Cæsar and Henry VIII., 10_s._; Othello's
handkerchief, 6_d._; six arm-chairs and six flower-plots, which dance
country dances, £2." The same author adds another quotation that gives
a better idea of the quantity and character of the property-man's
possessions, saying:--

"He has charge of all the movables and has to exercise the greatest
ingenuity in getting them up. His province is to preserve the canvas
water from getting wet, keep the sun's disk clear and the moon from
getting torn; he manufactures thunder on sheet iron, or from parchment
stretched drum-like on a frame; he prepares boxes of dried peas for
rain and wind, and huge watchman's rattles for the crash of falling
towers. He has under his charge demijohns for the fall of concealed
china in cupboards; speaking trumpets to imitate the growl of
ferocious wild beasts; penny whistles for the 'cricket on the hearth;'
powdered rosin for lightning flashes, where gas is not used; rose pink,
for the blood of patriots; money, cut out of tin; finely cut bits of
paper for fatal snow-storms; ten-pin balls, for the distant mutterings
of a storm; bags of gold containing bits of broken glass and pebbles,
to imitate the musical ring of coin; balls of cotton wadding for apple
dumplings; links of sausages, made of painted flannel; sumptuous
boquets of papier mache; block-tin rings with painted beads puttied
in for royal signets; crowns of Dutch gilding lined with red ferret;
broomstick handles cut up for truncheons for command; brooms themselves
for witches to ride; branches of cedar for Birnam wood; dredging
boxes of flour for the fate-desponding lovers; vermilion to tip the
noses of jolly landlords; pieces of rattan silvered over for fairy
wands; leaden watches, for gold repeaters; dog-chains for the necks of
knighthood, and tin spurs for its heels; armor made of leather, and
shields of wood; fans for ladies to coquet behind; quizzing-glasses,
for exquisites to ogle with; legs of mutton, hams, loaves of bread and
plum-puddings, all cut from canvas, and stuffed with sawdust; together
with all the pride, pomp, and circumstance of a dramatic display. Such
is the property-man of a theatre. He bears his honors meekly; he mixes
molasses and water for wine and darkens it a little shade for brandy;
is always busy behind the scenes, but is seldom seen, unless it is to
clear the stage, and then what a shower of yells and hisses does he
receive from the galleries! The thoughtless gods cry 'Supe! Supe!'
which if intended for an abbreviation of superior or superfine, may be
opposite, but in no other view of the case. What would a theatre be
without a property-man? A world without a sun * * * Kings would be
truncheonless and crownless; brigands without spoils; old men without
canes and powder; Harlequin without his hat; Macduff without his leafy
screen; theatres would close--there would be no tragedy, no comedy, no
farce without him. Jove in his chair was never more potent than he. An
actor might, and often does get along without the words of his part,
but not without the properties. What strange quandaries have we seen
the Garricks and Siddonses of our stage get into when the property-man
lapsed in his duty! We have seen Romeo distracted because the bottle
of poison was not to be found; Virginius tear his hair because the
butcher's knife was not ready on the shambles; Baillie Nicol Jarvie
nonplussed because there was no red-hot poker to singe the Tartan
fladdie with; Macbeth frowning because the Eighth Apparition did not
bear a glass to show him any more; William Tell in agony because there
was no small apple for Gesler to pick; the First Murderer in distress
because there was no blood for his face ready; Hecate fuming like
a hellcat because her car did not mount easily; Richard the Third
grinding his teeth because the clink of hammers closing rivets up was
forgotten; Hamlet brought up all standing because there was no goblet
to drink the poison from, and Othello stabbing Iago with a candlestick
because he had no other sword of Spain, the Ebro's temper, to do the
deed with. So, the property-man is no insignificant personage--he is
the mainspring which sets all the work in motion; and an actor had
better have a bad epitaph when dead than his ill will while living."

[Illustration: SCOTT-SIDDONS.]




CHAPTER XII.

MORE OF THE MYSTERIES.


A few companies have done away entirely with the canvas-outlined
turkey and the sawdust-stuffed dumpling, and have meals that figure
in the play served on the stage piping hot from some neighboring
restaurant. There is genuine wine too, and often it is champagne of
such quality that its sparkle makes the eyes of the tipplers in the
audience dance, and their mouths run water. In this and many other ways
the desire to get as near to the real thing as possible in art has
caused encroachments on the property-man's territory, and gradually
his treasures are decreasing. Still his occupation is not as gone as
Othello's. Travelling combinations have their own property-man, and
the theatres each carry one. Besides the magnificent work of producing
snow-storms from paper, etc., there are minor details of his business
that he brings as much art to as the average actor and actress take to
the stage. He builds a warrior's helmet from simple brown manilla paper
and makes a pair of bronze urns in the same cheap way, although they
may appear to be worth $300. Bronze figures, too, are obtained from
the same material; also flower-pots, mantelpieces, and such things.
He goes about the work like an artist. He first makes a model in clay
of the article--say it is an urn. This done he builds a wooden box
around it, and mixing plaster of paris and water pours the mixture
between the box and model where it is allowed to harden. After the
clay mould has been withdrawn the plaster of paris mould is greased,
and five successive coats of small pieces of thick brown paper that
have been soaked in water are carefully laid on. A layer of muslin
and glue follows, and three more coats of the brown paper. When the
application has thoroughly dried, the last three layers of brown paper
are removed, and the urn which has been four days in process of
completion is ready for use. Goblets for royal or knightly banquets
are manufactured by the property-man in the same manner. Often has a
golden goblet, ewer, amphora, or salver fallen to the floor from the
hands of awkward Ganymedes and Hebes without creating any consternation
among the gathered gallants, or making a sound loud enough to ripple
above the lightest notes of the orchestra. These properties are light,
but very durable, and well withstand the harsh and careless treatment
they frequently receive. Often the entire "banquet set" is made of
paper, the skilled work of the worthy property-man, who holds probably
the most independent place in the theatre, being obliged to carry no
article to anybody--not even a foreign star--but leaves that menial
work to the stage manager, prompter, or call-boy.

[Illustration: JOHN PARSELLE.]

Moonlight is one of the most poetical and beautiful of stage effects.
The first work in producing it is done by the scenic artist, who places
a moonlight picture on his canvas. The calcium light filtered through
a green glass fills the foreground with its mellow influence. At the
back of the stage a row of argand burners with light green shades,
gives the faint and soft touches that fill in the distance. A "ground
piece" or strip of scenery runs along the floor at the back of the
stage, and just under the main scene hides the "green mediums," as the
shaded burners are called, from the eyes of the audience. Sometimes the
row is above the stage, and protected from sight by the "sky-borders."
Silver ripples on the surface of water, and twinkling stars in the sky
are frequently made features of moonlight scenery. The twinkling stars
are bright spangles hung by pin-hooks to the scenes, and the ripples
are only slits in the water canvas, behind which an endless towel with
slits cut in its surface and a strong gaslight between the rollers and
the sides of the towel, is made to revolve. Every time the slits in the
towel came opposite the slits in the canvas the light shines through
and the silver dance upon the lake or river. When the slits in the
towel are made to move upward the ripples seem to lift their silvery
tops towards the bending sky. Moonrise, which is always an agreeable
illusion, even to those who know how it is done, is effected by lifting
the "moon-box," as it is carried slowly up behind a muslin canvas, upon
which heavy paper is fastened to represent clouds. The "moon-box" is an
ordinary cubial affair with a round hole at one end, over which a strip
of muslin is fastened, and behind which is a strong illumination. Two
wires from above are manipulated causing the moon to move through its
orbit. When its path lies behind one of the paper clouds the fraudulent
Cynthia, just like the genuine queen of the heavens, fails to shine,
but as soon as she emerges from the dark spot and the outer ruin of
the illuminated circular surface of the "moon-box" touches the white
muslin once again, she is the fair queen of night and the young lovers
in the audience feel as happy as if they were at home swinging on the
front gate, while pa is at the club and ma is entertaining an amiable
cousin in the second parlor. The flushed countenance of the moon, as
she is just rising from Thetis's arms, as you see her every night when
she is taking her first dainty steps up the eastern sky, is obtained by
having the lower edge of the muslin painted red and gradually blending
with the white, while floating clouds are only the result of hanging
or sewing on the gauze drop in front of the muslin screen, pieces of
muslin or canvas cut into the proper shapes. The change from day to
night, or _vice versa_, effects that surpass the other in real beauty,
and also in attractiveness for the public, is produced by having a drop
twice the usual length, painted one half in a sunset and the other
half in moonlight. If the change from day to night, which is the more
effective, is desired, the sunset sky occupies the upper half of the
drop--that is nothing but the sunset sky is presented to the eyes of
the audience. The distance scenery is painted upon a separate piece
and the outlines of the objects are sharply cut out so that the sunset
sky can be seen above the irregular outline of the horizon. A gauze
drop hangs in front to give the picture the required hazy effect, and
red lights give a sunset glow to the entire scene. Rolling up the
back drop the change is made slowly and carefully until the moon is
discovered in the night half of the sky and goes up with it, while the
usual moonlight mediums are brought into requisition to increase the
brightness of the view.

[Illustration: SOL SMITH RUSSELL.]

There are two ways of producing ocean waves. Sometimes a piece of
blue cloth with dashes of white paint for wave-crests covers the
entire stage, when the necessary motion of the waters is obtained by
having men or boys stationed in the entrances to sway the sea. Again,
each billow may be made to show separate with the alternate rows of
billows rearing their white crests between the tips of the row on each
side. These billows are rocked backward and forward--to and from the
audience--while the ocean's roar comes from a wooden box lined with
tin and containing a small quantity of bird shot. The desired sound is
produced by rolling the box around.

[Illustration: ROSE COGHLAN.]

Anybody who has witnessed Milton Noble's "Phœnix" properly placed on
the stage, or "The Streets of New York," must have been, the first
time, both terrified, and still somewhat delighted, with the fire
scenes. Of late years they have been made wonderfully thrilling, and
almost perfect fac-similes of the Fire Fiend himself. The scene-painter
gets up his house in three pieces. The roof is swung from the "flies";
the front wall is in two pieces, a jagged line running from near the
top of one side of the scene to the lower end of the other side. If
shutters are to fall, as in "The Streets of New York," they are
fastened to the scene with "quick match," a preparation of powder,
alcohol, and lamp wick. Iron window and door frames are covered with
oakum soaked in alcohol or other fire-quickening fluid. Steam is made
to represent smoke, and the steam itself is obtained by dissolving lime
in water. A platform from the side affords a footing to the firemen who
are fighting the flames in the very midst of the burning building, and
an endless towel with painted flames keeps moving across the picture
after the first wall and roof have been allowed to fall in, while red
fire plays upon the whole picture and "flash torches" are made to
represent leaping tongues of flame. There appears to be a great deal of
danger from the operation of a scene of this kind, but if proper care
is taken the danger is as worthy of consideration as that attending the
presentation of a parlor scene.

[Illustration: THE RAFT SCENE.]

"The World" has been pronounced a novelty in scenic effects. I went
behind the scenes to see how the thing worked, and had the pleasure of
finding out all about it. The play is in seven set scenes. The first
had nothing unusual in it except that the ship with full steam on and
the dock was produced very artistically. The ship and the buildings
were in profile with a good stretch of sky beyond, that was all. Next
came the explosion scene, when the vessel was, by the supposed use of
dynamite, sent flying in splinters in mid-ocean, and all save four
souls went down to the briny depths. The mere ship setting, with its
boilers, its hatches, its galleries, spars and guys, was worthy of
admiration. While the performers were leading up to the point where the
awful and fateful moment comes, a man sat quietly behind the scenes
ready to fire an anvil of guns, each charged to the muzzle; men stood
at the numerous openings in the rear, and men with chemical red-fire
occupied the side-scenes, while others with powdered lycopodium were
under the stage beneath a half-dozen grated openings. At the left, in
the wings, stood an array of "supers," to rush on and increase the
commotion when the shock came. When the heavy villain announced that
there was a dynamite machine on board, and the captain gave orders
to his men to overhaul everything below and try to find it--then
the thunder came. Bang went the young cannons in the rear. The stage
shook, and the theatre seemed ready to fall about our ears; the females
shrieked; the "supers" rushed on and shouted; then came the leaping
flames from below and from the sides, until, finally, the whole picture
was one burning glow and whirl of smoke, and the curtain came down in
time, I suppose, to prevent a panic, for women shrieked, and men got
up from their seats to flee from the theatre. Act three brought the
grandest illusion of all--the great raft scene. This picture shows
a raft tossing on a rolling ocean with a vast stretch of sea on all
sides, the sky and waters apparently meeting as far away as if they
were realities and not mere attempts at nature. This scene always
struck me with awe until I saw it from the stage. The second act at
an end, the stage manager has the stage cleared in a short time; then
the carpenter and his assistants go to work. A "ground piece" of sea
is placed across the stage at the first entrance. All the side scenes
are removed and a huge curtain of light blue is hung in a semi-circle
from one side of the stage, up around to the rear and then down to
the other side. A couple of men now come down to the centre of the
stage bearing something that looks like an old barn-door with four
swinging legs, one at each corner. A pivot is fastened on the stage;
the barn door is balanced on it and down through four small openings
in the stage go the four arms or legs, at points corresponding with
the four corners of the door. I can see now that the upper side of
the door bears a slight resemblance to a rude raft, the timber being
artistically painted upon its surface. Somebody sticks a pole in the
side up the stage. A box is placed at one end for the villain who is
among the saved; a cushion is furnished at the other end for the young
lady who plays the lad, _Ned_; _Old Owen_, the miner, lies along the
lower side and _Sir Clement Huntingford_, the hero, takes his stand
at the mast, pale and haggard with hunger and anxiety. The sea cloth,
covering the stage except for a rectangular aperture that goes around
the raft and has its edges fastened to the raft, is spread; boys crawl
under the sea and lie upon their backs; men stand in the side scenes
holding the ragged edges of the already white-crested sea. Everything
is ready now, and amid the right kind of music the curtain goes up on
the magnificent raft scene. Four men under the stage have hold of the
four pieces hanging from the corners of the raft, and by pulling in
exact line give it the motion of the heaving sea; the men in the side
scenes agitate the blue cloth and the boys beneath it toss and roll the
cloth with hands and feet. _Old Owen_ dies before _Sir Clement_ sights
a ship no bigger than a star away off in the horizon. He ties a rag to
the mast for a signal; but the ship keeps moving past, until at last,
to the despair of all on board the raft, it is about to dip below the
horizon. But it suddenly tacks; there is a tiny rocket seen curving in
the air; the ship has noticed the signal of distress and down comes
the curtain upon the happy trio left alive on board their storm-tossed
and frail raft. Passing over two acts that are only eventful the sixth
comes, which represents the yard of a lunatic asylum, with two great
walls on either side of an iron gate that is set well up the stage, and
through which a stretch of the River Thames and the overhanging sky
are seen. _Sir Clement_, who is the rightful heir to certain property,
has been confined here through the machinations of his brother, who
is in possession, and of another scoundrel. Here, though, the hero
makes his escape by knocking the officers right and left and bounding
through the gate; in a moment the walls part and a house with cornices
and wide projections folds together like a stuffed valentine that has
been sat upon. One of the walls moves off the stage to the left, the
other to the right, each moving in an arc of a circle, and the whole
disappearing from the stage, while _Sir Clement_ is discovered paddling
safely down the Thames from his pursuers. The walls are moved from the
stage through the agency of men stationed inside. Rollers are provided
for the scenic structures, and there are two men inside of each piece,
the one in advance having a lookout hole and acting as guide. The only
thing attractive in the last act is an elevator in the Palace Hotel.
This is a simple mechanical effect, however, and needs no explanation.
I should have said in describing the sea that the horizon rises
gradually from the stage to a height of about three feet at the back,
and the sail that is sighted is a tiny ship mounted on a frame work on
rollers and pulled across the stage by a small cord. This raft scene is
all that has been claimed for it, and the illusion has not its equal on
the stage. The revolving tower in "The Shaughraun," and the vanishing
scene in "Youth," are both worked in the same manner as the lunatic
asylum walls in "The World."




CHAPTER XIII.

THE ARMY OF ATTACHES.


I have already written about the property-man, his many duties, and
the great responsibility that rests upon him. I have also written
about the prompter, and the vast amount of work he is required to
do. But there remain behind the scenes and in the body of the house,
other persons who go to make up the grand army of theatrical attaches,
and whose place in the amusement world is one of some importance, as
they are the adjuncts without which the drama would be left naked of
its present beauty and splendor and the circumstances under which it
would be patronized would be full of inconvenience and discomfort. The
door-keepers of theatres are often interesting characters. Sometimes
they have been selected outside the ranks of the profession, when,
of course, they have little more to tell you about than the habits
and peculiarities of the theatre-going public; but many of them are
broken-down actors,--actors who have been "crushed," and in whose
better days vistas of unlimited hope opened before their dazzled
vision. These are full of reminiscences of the old-time saints of the
sock and buskin. If one could believe all they have to say, these
victims of circumstances could be looked upon as individuals whose
destiny it had originally been to knock their shiny stove-pipe hats
against the stars of heaven, but, by some strange fatality, had their
backs broken and their majestic tread lamed, so that now they can only
shuffle into a free-lunch saloon and bend their necks over the counter
as they lovingly embrace a schooner of beer. There is always room at
the bottom for the unfortunates of the profession, and they find such
provision usually made for them, as taking tickets at the door, or
working outside among the newspaper boys in the capacity of agent.
The treasurer of a theatre and the ticket seller, who, in the broad
sense of the word, may be looked upon as attaches, are people that all
patrons of theatres are familiar with. They, with the door-keeper, must
in the blandest manner at their command resist the advances of the very
numerous dead-heads. A courteous refusal is always deemed the best, but
frequently the harshest treatment must be resorted to to get rid of
this theatrical nuisance, of whom I shall take occasion to speak later
on, as well as of the free-pass system. The treasurer of a theatre is
always on terms of intimacy with the professionals who frequent his
house, and is usually a jolly-featured, good-natured man who knows how
to entertain his friends, to retain the good opinion of his manager,
while filling up the ticket-box with passes, and who understands and
appreciates the full value of the saying that a soft answer turneth
aside wrath. His salary ranges from $25 to $50 a week, while a good
ticket-seller, who frequently is made to do all the hard work, may be
had for $12 or $15. A door-keeper is paid from $10 to $15 a week.

[Illustration: MINNIE HAUK.]

The great American type of youthful citizen, with all the manners and
dignity of old age and the advisory qualities of a Nestor, is the
theatrical usher--the young chap who takes your reserved seat ticket
with a smile full of malignity and succeeds in getting you into the
wrong chair and almost into a prize fight with every man who comes
into the same row of seats. He does this graciously and with such an
exhibition of carefulness in comparing the number on your coupon with
the number of the chair, that you actually feel ashamed of yourself
to have made a mistake after what appeared to you to be an honest,
vigorous, and successful effort to show you what was right. The ushers
in Western cities are mere boys in uniform; in the East they are young
men, and at Haverly's, Wallack's, and other first-class New York
establishments, you will find them in full evening dress with as large
an exhibition of shirt front as the swellest of the society noodles who
are among the patrons of the house. The usher gets $6 or $8 a week, but
impresses the stranger as if he owned an interest in the theatre. He
may sell calico or run a lemonade stand during the day, but at night he
is master of all he surveys, talks of the actresses as familiarly as
if he were a blood relation, tries to make you believe he has "a solid
girl" in the ballet, and will offer you any favor, from an introduction
to the star to a dozen matinee-passes or a game of seven-up with the
manager. Like the claquers, he is a regular nuisance. After the first
act he will sit or stand and give his opinion of the play, commenting
upon the performers in such brief, half ejaculatory, half interrogatory
way, as, "Ain't she a daisy, though?" or, "Ain't he a dandy, you bet?"
He is expected to applaud even the vilest and least deserving things,
and when the cue is given, works his hands and feet as vigorously as I
have often seen Henry Mapleson in applauding Marie Roze, his wife, or a
travelling manager in commending the efforts of his favorite among the
females of his company.

Down in front, right under the glow of the foot-lights, the bald head
of the leader of the orchestra shines. Often he is interesting, but
sometimes, especially among the leaders for combinations on the road,
he has a life history that compels now tears and now again laughter.
When he is on the road he may have a wife or daughter in the company,
and if he has neither he is bound to look lovingly upon some of the
fair talent whose toes twinkle, or voices ripple in song to the tune
of his waving baton, and he will smile out through his gold-rimmed
spectacles upon his favorite even while she is courting the favor
of the audience, or, perhaps, while she is trying to mash some beefy
blonde in the front rows of the parquette. Jealousy often takes
possession of the breast of the orchestra leader. It may be that he
will find out that the wife he has done everything for to make famous
has younger and handsomer lovers, from whose glowing presence she
comes to her musical lord cold as a Christmas morning with eighteen
inches of ice on pond and river; or it may be that the favorite of the
foot-lights whom he adores has found another favorite in the audience;
then there is war, and sometimes the orchestra is left without its
leader and a story of unrequited love is told in a coroner's inquest
held upon a body found floating in a pool, or hanging from a transom
in the room of some hotel. To leave the pathetic and get down to solid
facts it may be stated that the leader of an orchestra is paid from
$75 to $100 a week, and has from a dozen to sixteen musicians whose
salaries range from $18 to $30 a week.

Again returning to the bosom of the stage--to the sacred precincts
beyond the foot-lights--we encounter the stage manager. Every
travelling company has its own employee who directs and runs the stage
business, and notwithstanding the abolition of stock companies, several
theatres retain stage managers of their own who work in conjunction
with the company's, looking after the setting of scenery, bossing the
stage hands, etc. The stage manager may be an actor, or he may not,
but he must be a man of theatrical training, and thoroughly conversant
with all the requirements of the stage. In travelling combinations he
usually plays a minor part, and, although he may not be able to act
as well as his brethren of the play, he must possess the requisite
artistic knowledge to point out and dictate what all shall do.
He supervises rehearsals; casts plays,--that is, assigns to each
performer his character; and he looks after the mounting of plays and
the costuming, giving the scenic artist the period to which the play
belongs, and imparting the same information to the costumers so that
there may be no anachronism in the representation on the stage.

[Illustration: HELPING THE SCENE PAINTER.]

The scenic artist, who is often known to the people only by his work,
has some extraordinary duties to perform. When a combination or company
has a date at a theatre a week or so beforehand, they send on small
models of the scenery they require for their play. These models greatly
resemble in their general appearance and size the toy theatres that are
sold to children. The stage carpenter, who goes around day and night
treading the stage in his own shuffling and careless way, and who is
entirely unknown to the public, takes the models and builds frames over
which canvas or muslin is spread. Then the canvas-covered frame is
taken to the scene painter's bridge when it is ready for the colors.
In many theatres the bridge is a platform extending across the stage,
and distant from the rear wall about a foot. It is on a level with
the flies, and the opening between it and the rear wall is used for
lowering and hoisting a scene, which is hung on a large wooden frame
while the artist is at work upon it. This frame moves up and down,
being swung on pulleys. The most improved theatres East and West, in
addition to having the dressing-rooms, engines, etc., in a building
separate from the theatre, have the paint bridge also separate. Great
iron doors, three or four stories high, close the opening to the
painting establishment, and all scenery not in use on the stage during
the run of a play is stored in the space under the bridge, while the
bridge itself is really a long narrow room with an opening at one
side of a foot or less, through which communication is had with the
storeroom, and which gives space for the operation of the frames upon
which scenes are painted. The artist's palette is a long table with
compartments at the back for different colors, and there is besides a
profusion of paint cans, jars, etc., with huge brushes that might serve
the whitewasher's wide-spread purpose, and others thin enough to paint
a lady's eye-lash. Water-colors are used, and great splotches of it are
found along the lengthy palette. The removal of the paint-bridge from
the stage is a blessing to actors and actresses alike, for often during
a performance at night or a rehearsal in the morning broadcloths and
silks received dashes of paint from the brush of the man at work in
mid-air. Still actresses do not often keep shy of the paint-bridge. The
ballet-girls are sometimes to be found there amusing themselves with
the artist and his assistants, and they tell the story of two New York
actresses who actually put on aprons, took hold of the big brushes, and
assisted a scenic artist in "priming" his canvas. They were bantering
him about the slow progress he was making with a scene that was wanted
that night, when he remarked: "If you are in such a hurry for the
scene, why don't you come up here and help me?" They accepted the
invitation at once, and went to work in the manner I have suggested.
The scene was ready that night, but the actresses were very tired. They
painted no more.

The "priming" of a scene which I have mentioned in the preceding
anecdote, consists in laying a coat of white mixed with sizing upon the
canvas. When this is dry the artist outlines his scene in charcoal. He
first gets his perspective, which he does by attaching a long piece
of twine to a pin fixed at his "vanishing point." Then blackening the
string and beginning at the top he snaps it so as to make a black
line which is afterwards gone over with ink. This line is reproduced
whenever the drawing requires, and the advantage it affords will be
readily understood by all who know anything about art or appreciate the
value of good perspective in drawing. The sky of the scene is first
filled in rapidly with a whitewash brush, after which follows a swift
but clever completion of the view. The side scenes which are to be used
as continuations of the "flat," as the principal or back part of a
scene is called, must be in perspective with the rest of the picture.
Scenic artists work very quickly, and can prepare a view in a very
short time. Morgan, Marston, Fox, and Voegtlin, in New York; Goatcher,
in Cincinnati; and Dick Halley, Tom Noxon, and Ernest Albert, in St.
Louis, are among the best scene painters in the country. The salaries
paid in this branch of the profession vary from $40 to $150 a week. A
New York artist, it is said, who works very fast, receives as much as
$100 to $150 for one or two scenes. When it is taken into consideration
that at the end of the run of a play these scenes are blotted out to
make way for others, the price paid for them is simply enormous.

[Illustration: THE "OLD WOMAN" OF THE COMPANY.]

The old woman of the company is an elderly matronly female, who may be
found hovering in the wings of every theatre. She is nobody's mother in
particular, but talks in a motherly way to all, and exercises a special
supervision over the female members of the company. In strange contrast
to her is the call-boy, a mischievous devil-may-care young fellow, who
calls Booth "Ed," Bernhardt "Sallie," and has familiar appellations
for the most prominent and dignified people in the profession. It is
his business to call performers from the green-room in time for them
to take their "cue" for going on the stage, and this is about all he
has to do except to make trouble, to learn secrets that he whispers
about, and to become an impish nuisance revelling in more fun and
freedom than anybody else behind the scenes. Aimee took a liking to one
of these little gentlemen once and fed him cigarettes, and let him tell
her lies _ad libitum_. She said she liked him because he was such "a
charming little beast." Alice Oates, of flagrant fame, allowed one of
them out West to get into her good graces, and repented it, when she
found that he disappeared suddenly one day with a lot of her jewels.
The call-boy comes last in the list of attaches, but he is not at
all least. If you believe all he tells you, like the usher, you will
think him a great man, for he often boasts of playing poker with John
McCullough, of taking Lotta out for a drive, or of rolling ten-pins
with Salvini or some equally illustrious representative of the highest
dramatic art. A call-boy gets about $10 a week, and in five cases out
of ten he isn't worth ten cents.

[Illustration: THE ÆSTHETIC DRAMA.]




CHAPTER XIV.

STAGE-STRUCK.


George McManus, treasurer of the Grand Opera House, St. Louis, in
addition to being a good story-teller, is as fond of a practical joke
as he is of three meals a day. During the season of 1880-81 George was
at the box-office window, one day, looking out at the Dutch lager beer
saloon across the street, and wondering why it was that people were so
fond of "schooners," when a tall, thin, melancholy, Hamlet-like young
fellow, with the air and clothes of rusticity, stalked slowly into the
vestibule and up to the box-office.

"Well, sir," said George, as the young man got in front of the window
and fixed his elbows on the sill.

"I want to be an actor," the young man began; "I kem here from Cahokia,
a small place you may have heern about, and I'd like to go on the stage
and play somethin' or other."

"Oh," answered George, smiling, "if that's all you want I can fix you.
When do you want to begin?"

"I am ready to start in right neow," was the reply. "I told the old
folks when I left the house last night that they needn't expect to
see me ag'in 'til my name wuz on the walls an' the sides o' houses in
letters more'n a yard long, an' I'm goin' to do it or die."

"I see you're made out of the right kind of stuff," said George,
"and I'll give you a first-class chance. You're ambitious and you're
lean--lean enough to play Falstaff--and lean and ambitious people
always make their mark. Have you ever heard of the lean and hungry
Cassius?--I don't mean a depositor at the door of a busted bank, but
the Cassius of 'Julius Cæsar.' I'll bet you feel just like him now; you
look like him."

The Cahokian candidate for Thespian honors blushed.

"Well," the practical joker went on, "you can begin work this morning.
The minstrels will be here in a few minutes for rehearsal, and they
want a new box of gags. Go over to Harry Noxon, at the Comique, and ask
him to give you a box of the best gags he's got. Tell him they're for
me."

With a face wreathed in smiles the Cahokian _Cassius_ stalked off
towards the Comique while George went out and gathered in a few friends
to enjoy the joke. The Cahokian went to the Comique, and Harry Noxon,
understanding what was meant, gave the poor fellow a box half filled
with bricks, and telling him that was all he had, directed him to go up
to Pope's and ask for Ed. Zimmerman, who would fill the box for him.
Shouldering the heavy load, the Cahokian moved bravely out towards
Pope's, six and one-half blocks away. He was pretty tired when he
got there. Ed. Zimmerman, in obedience to his request, sent the box
around to the stage-door, where the carpenter removed the lid and added
bricks enough to fill the receptacle. Nailing the lid on again the
stage-struck youth was once more presented with it. It took a great
deal of exertion for him to get the box to his shoulder, and when he
had it there he staggered along under the load like a drunken man, to
the Opera House seven blocks away. When he reached the Opera House,
McManus said the Minstrels had changed their mind about using any new
gags, and requested the Cahokian to carry them over to the Olympic.
The Cahokian looked at McManus, then took a woeful and weary look at
the box, and, wiping the perspiration from his high forehead and thin
face, he swung his slouch hat over his brow and remarked that he was
tired.

"I say, Mister," he said, "if that's what a fellow's got to do to be
a actor I'd sooner plow corn er run a thrashin'-masheen twenty-three
hours out'n the twenty-four. I thought there was more fun in the
business than carryin' around two or three hundred pounds of iron
or somethin' like it, all day in the sun. I guess I'll throw up my
engagement. Good-bye." And he strode out into the street, while George
and his friends had a laugh that was as hearty as the lungs that led in
the merriment were loud and strong.

[Illustration: KITTY BLANCHARD.]

There are a few young men and young ladies in this world who do not
take the same view of the stage that the Cahokian took: they imagine
there is a great deal of fun in being an actor or an actress, and that
it does not require any special effort to arrive at the point where
a person becomes a full-fledged professional. In this they are just
as much mistaken as was the Cahokian, and sometimes, after they have
gone into training for the profession, they tire of the hard work as
readily almost as the stage-struck young farmer tired of carrying the
box of "gags." There is a general wild desire among the young people
of this country to make players of themselves. They dream that the
stage is something like a seventh heaven where there is nothing but
music and singing and golden glory forever--admirers, wealth, and an
uninterrupted good time generally. They do not know anything about the
long and toilsome hours of work and the comparatively poor pay that
form the portion of all who are not at the top of the dramatic ladder.
They never pause to think if they are girls of the temptations into
which they will be thrown, and of the slanders that will be uttered
against their fair names upon the slightest provocation. All they see
or know of theatrical life is its bright gilded side, the tinsel that
looks valuable, the jewels that are paste, the silks and satins that
are not what they seem, and the beautiful faces and bright smiles
beneath which are wrinkles and toil-laden looks, when the actress is in
her home plying her needle or studying the long lengths that belong
to her part. It is because people are so ignorant of the realities of
dramatic life that so many become stage-struck and go around striking
tragic attitudes and rating imaginary scenery in a rabid rant through
Othello's address to the Senate, or Hamlet's scene with his mother in
the latter's chamber. There are forty thousand young ladies in this
land who want to be Mary Andersons, and as many more who think they
can kick as cutely as Lotta, while one hundred thousand semi-bald
young men imagine they could out-Hamlet Booth if they had a chance, or
lift the mantle of Forrest from John McCullough if the latter dared
enter the ring with them. A Louisville newspaper reporter gave a very
humorous description of an epidemic of this kind that prevailed in Mary
Anderson's home city some time ago. "One half the girls of the city,"
said the writer, "are stage-struck!--stark, staring stage-struck.
Hundreds of residences have been converted into amateur play-houses,
where would-be female stars tear their hair, rave and split the air
with their arms, and stalk majestically across imaginary stages to the
imaginary music of imaginary orchestras, and amid burst of imaginary
applause and showers of imaginary boquets. In the dry goods stores
young ladies rush up to the counters with inspiration dropping from
their eyes in great hunks and in hollow tones command the affrightened
clerk to--

"Haste thee, cringing vassal; pr-r-r-r-ro-duce and br-r-r-r-r-ing into
our pr-r-r-r-r-esence thy sixty-five-cent hose!"

In the ice cream saloons the maidens shove the cooling cream into their
lovely mouths and sweetly murmur to their escorts:--

"Now, by me faith, Orlando, but is't not a nectar fit for the gods?
Speak, me beloved; is't not a dainty dish that graces our festal board?"

And practical Orlando replies:--

"I bet you."

On the street-car the maiden stalks forward toward the driver and
howls:--

"What, ho, there, charioteer, give me, I pray thee, diminutive coin for
this one dollar bond an' I will upon the instant requite thee for thy
services upon this journey."

When one of them catches a flea she holds the victim at arms' length
and roars:--

"Ha-a-a-a! I have thee at last, vile craven. For many nights thy visits
to me chamber have br-r-r-ought unrest. Now at la-a-st thou art in me
clutches and I will shower vengeance upon thy thr-rice accursed head.
Die, vile in-gr-rate, and may the seething fires of perdition engulf
thy quivering soul forever-r-r-r!"

Then she opens her fingers a little to get a good squeeze at him and
the flea hops out and goes home to tell its folks about it. They have
got it bad and none of the old established methods of treatment seem to
avail.

It is the very height of absurdity to see an amateur company on a
stage, and particularly on the stage of a theatre. In the midst of the
most solemn tragedy one is compelled to laugh at them. If they have on
tights and trunks they try to get their hands into side pockets, and
if they carry swords the weapon gets tangled in their legs, and ten to
one after the blade has left its scabbard, the wearer will be unable
to get it back again. Then the way they walk upon each other's heels,
and tread upon each other's corns; jostle each other in the entrances
and stick in their lines is enough to make one of the painted figures
in the proscenium arch tear itself out of its medalion frame and die
from excessive laughter. More ludicrous even than their performance is
the frantic rush a young amateur makes for the photograph gallery to
have himself preserved as a courtier, and the equally rapid progress
the young society lady makes in the same direction--anxious to have her
picture taken no matter whether she plays a queen, a lady of honor, or
a page in tights. She has no hesitancy in displaying her awkward limbs
in a picture, although she would be ashamed to show her ankle in the
parlor.

[Illustration: MRS. LANGTRY, THE JERSEY LILY.]

Sometimes, instead of being made the subject of a practical joke on the
street, as was the Cahokian of whom I told the story at the opening
of this chapter, the joke is carried even farther--the aspirant being
taken to the stage to give a sample of his work. Occasionally the show
is given to the people of the theatre only, and the victim is quietly
let through a trap, or guyed unmercifully, until he is glad of an
opportunity to make his escape. I was present on an occasion when an
Illinoisan who had just graduated from college was allowed to go on
the stage during a matinee performance, when the house was light, to
speak his piece. He chose, of course, the selection he had inflicted on
the suffering audience that attended the Illinois college graduating
exercises. It was "The Warrior Bowed his Crested Head," a very dramatic
recitation and a difficult one even for a good reader. The debutant was
about eighteen years of age, tall, and manly looking. He came forward
trembling, and did not attempt to proceed further than about twelve
feet from the entrance,--making a school-boy bow he began. The audience
wondered at the innocence and awkwardness of the entertainer who did
not appear in the programme, but all soon understood the affair. The
debutant had not reached the second line of the second verse, when
bang came a pistol shot from the side of the stage. The speaker ducked
his head, trembled a little more than before, but went on. Bang went
another pistol shot, and again the speaker acknowledged receipt of a
shock by twitching his head and knocking his knees together. Still
he kept on reciting. Sheet-iron thunder rattled through the place,
horns were blown, drums beaten, horse-rattles kept in motion and for
more than half an hour pistol shots and flashes of fire kept coming
from both sides of the stage. Still he spoke on, making gestures,
twitching his limbs, and ducking his head until the last line was
reached,--something about the hero's weapons shining no more among the
spears of Spain,--when he bowed and retired hardly able to walk. He was
an exception, however, to the general rule that stage-struck people
are easily frightened out of their wits, under such circumstances, and
displayed such perseverance that he was complimented by the audience
that had scarcely heard a word of what he had said--a loud burst of
applause following his exit, which was continued until he came forward
again and by a bow acknowledged their kindness. He must have been a
brave fellow, for next day he was around at the manager's office asking
for an engagement.

Managers are sometimes very cruel in their treatment of young people
who are anxious to adopt the stage. I saw a newspaper item stating
that at the Buckingham, a variety show in Louisville, a drop curtain
was painted with the huge letters "N. G.," standing for "no good," and
the manager ordered that this verdict be lowered in front of every
performer who failed to show a fair degree of merit. It happened that
the first to deserve this crushing verdict was a remarkably pretty
girl, and the audience sympathized with her. She had given an execrable
dance, and was in the midst of a woeful recitation, when the "N. G."
curtain was lowered. The audience demanded her reappearance and did not
permit anybody else to perform until the police had arrested the more
gallant and noisy among them.

Amateurs who have any money to mingle with their desire to go on the
stage find ready takers. I could name several gentlemen who are now
alleged professionals, with talents that are not even mediocre, who
are tolerated in first-class company only because they pay for the
privilege. One way a moneyed, stage-struck person has of getting before
the public is to rent a theatre, and hire a company for a night or
a week or a month, as the case may be. Society swells generally do
this kind of thing, and they never succeed. Marie Dixon was, under
another name, a fairly well-to-do, well connected and popular lady of
Memphis, Tennessee. She was old enough to have a married son, but did
not appear to be more than thirty-six years. Her family had been very
wealthy before the war, but that event swept away their possessions,
as it swept away the possessions of many others. She was educated
and accomplished, but was stage-struck. She had appeared at several
amateur concert entertainments in Memphis, and the local papers having
complimented her, and her friends having remarked that she was intended
for an actress, she boldly, but foolishly, resolved to become one. She
made up her mind to rival Mary Anderson, and to overshadow the memory
of Ristori and all the great queens of the stage that have made a place
for themselves in dramatic history. She paid $2,000 for the use of a
St. Louis theatre for six nights; she hired a very bad company at, to
them, very extravagant salaries; she bought a wardrobe larger and in
some respects richer than that of any established star; then she came
to St. Louis with her aged father, whose hopes and money were staked
upon her; they put up at the Lindell Hotel, and having left Memphis
amid a flourish of trumpets, they fondly expected a wilder flourish
when they returned. Miss Dixon appeared before the St. Louis public for
six nights, and was a failure. She was no actress. She was ashamed to
return to Memphis, and at this writing is still absent from there. The
father went home, and, I hear, died of a broken heart. Disappointed
friends at first pitied, then laughed at this accomplished lady, whose
only fault seems to be that she was one of the grand army of the
stage-struck.

[Illustration: MARIE PRESCOTT AS "PARTHENIA."]

Miss Helen M. Lewis, a Charleston, South Carolina, heiress, who was
anxious to become a Sarah Bernhardt or a Siddons, was taken in recently
by an advertisement in a New York paper. The advertisement stated that
a lady with a little capital was wanted to head a first-class dramatic
combination, and that she might call at No. 602 Sixth Avenue, New York.
Miss Lewis, who was without any training, answered the advertisement,
and was told that $1,000 would be required to obtain the position,
which was leading lady in the "Daniel Rochat" Combination, which was to
begin its tour, by opening at the Boston Theatre. The negotiations were
carried on with Maurice A. Schwab and Robert J. Rummel, who received
$700 from Miss Lewis, and furnished her with an alleged instructor in
the dramatic art. In order to be near the theatre Miss Lewis took rooms
at the Revere House, Boston, where Schwab and Rummel also established
themselves, and proceeded to study her part after engaging an alleged
instructor recommended by Schwab. After two or three weeks' standing
off by the swindlers, who made constant demands on her for money for
her wardrobe and other things, she chanced to call at the Boston
Theatre to hear how the rehearsals of "Daniel Rochat" were progressing.
She was told that there were no rehearsals in progress and learned that
she had been swindled. Schwab and Hummel fled, leaving her to pay her
hotel bill, but she had them arrested in New York, and both on trial
were, I think, convicted and sent to the penitentiary, where plenty
more managers of their stripe should be.

Managers of what are known as "snap" companies are just as bad as
Schwab and Rummel. They are glad to find some young lady or gentleman
of means with lots of ready cash, and they do not hesitate to make
victims even of professional people. The snap manager has no money
of his own. He sits around a theatrical printing office all day, and
pretends to be running a circuit of several towns. He watches his
opportunity until a company comes along which he thinks he can take
over to his villages. By false representations he manages to run up a
big bill with the printer and to borrow money from the company, who go
as far on his circuit as their means will permit, when the snap manager
deserts them, leaving them to walk, or beg, or borrow their way home
as best they can. Marie Prescott, who supported Salvini during his
last American tour, and who is an actress of merit, was caught in the
clutches of one of these managers at one time and was put in a pitiable
plight. Other actresses of good reputation have accepted engagements
from strange managers only to find themselves members of fly-by-night
combinations, giving their services without even the show of a
probability of ever receiving any salary.

Even so exalted a gentleman and eminent an impresario as Col. Mapleson
is alleged to have brought a young girl from France promising he would
make a fortune for her. The girl's father and mother accompanied her,
and when the gallant colonel of Italian troupes failed to keep his
contract with the sweet singer, the father became enraged and wanted
to fight a duel with the military impresario. The family went back to
France almost penniless.

The worst class of managers in the world are those who take advantage
of the ambition of young girls to effect their ruin. In some of the
variety theatres managers pay salaries to young ladies or introduce
them to the stage for none other than a base and iniquitous purpose.
Frightful stories of this kind have been told, and the success real
managers have met with in this direction has caused numerous pretenders
to arise, and has made the theatrical profession a bait to secure
innocent girls for Western and Southern bawdy-houses, concert dives,
and low dancing-halls. I read the following advertisement in the
_Globe-Democrat_ one morning:--

  PERSONAL--Wanted, three or four young ladies to join a travelling
  company. Address Manager, this office.

I knew that reputable theatrical managers did not advertise in this
style--indeed, they need not advertise at all, for there is always
plenty of talent in the market--and came to the conclusion that the
"Personal" was a veil to hide some piece of dirty work. Therefore I sat
down, and, in varying feminine hands, wrote letters to the manager,
asking for an opening. Two letters, with their corresponding answers,
are here selected as specimens of the remainder, answers to all having
been received. One of the applications ran as follows:--

    ST. LOUIS, February 6, 1878.

  MR. MANAGER: I want to adopt the stage; have appeared as an
  amateur, and will join you if I can learn. I am seventeen, a
  blonde, small, and my friends say I look well on the stage. I
  sing and perform on the guitar. I have a friend--a very pretty
  brunette--who is very anxious to go with me, but she has never
  acted. She is same age. Please let me know where I can see you, if
  you have not already employed enough; but I must be particular, as
  my mother does not want me to go away. Address

    ETTIE HOLAN,
    City Post-Office.

  I will call at general delivery and get it.

The other was written in this strain and in these words:--

    ST. LOUIS, February 6, 1877.

  DEAR SIR: I saw your advertisement in this morning's
  _Globe-Democrat_, asking for three or four young ladies to join a
  travelling theatrical company, and as I am desirous of going on
  the stage, and am of good form and pretty fair appearance, and
  have a pretty good voice, I would wish to join your company. I
  have never appeared on any regular stage, but made several amateur
  appearances, which were pronounced very successful. I have an
  ambition for the stage, and think I would succeed. I am seventeen
  years of age, and medium height, with black hair and dark eyes, and
  am a tasty dresser. I hope you will not pass over my application,
  but will receive it favorably. Anxiously awaiting an early reply, I
  remain, respectfully yours, etc.,

    LIZZIE HILGER.

  P. S.--Address your reply to me to the post-office.

These and the others were all calculated to make the "manager" feel
that he had captured a whole shoal of gudgeons. He would certainly
reply to such unsophisticated notes as these, and he did. The letters
were placed in the newspaper office box on Wednesday afternoon, and
bright and early on Thursday morning, I went around to the post-office,
presented my string of names, and met with no little opposition from
the gentlemanly delivery clerk, at first, who naturally did not like
to give an armful of mail for females to one who was not a female.
The situation was explained, however, and a half dozen rose-tinted
envelopes, all properly backed and stamped, and each containing an
epistle, was the result. They were opened one after another, and the
rose-tinted and perfumed pages of each told, in a bold running hand
exactly the same story--"pass the corner of Eighth and Locust Streets,"
at hours varying from noon to sundown on Thursday afternoon. It was
just what had been expected. Ettie Holan, the petite blonde, who could
play the guitar, was answered as follows:--

    ST. LOUIS, MO., February 6, 1878.

  MISS ETTIE HOLAN: Your letter through the _G.-D._ at hand.
  We desire to engage several young ladies for the company now
  travelling, and among numerous applicants note yours, and think it
  possible to fix an engagement both for yourself and lady friend. As
  you are very particular about your folks, you might possibly object
  to coming to our office, so if you desire the engagement, please
  pass the corner of Locust and Eighth Streets with your lady friend
  about four (4) o'clock P. M. to-morrow (Thursday), the 7th.

    Yours, respectfully,
    HARRY RUSSELL.

And Lizzie Hilger, with nothing to recommend her but a voice and figure
that she had recommended herself, was encouraged in her ambitious
aspirations in the following manner:--

    ST. LOUIS, MO., February 6, 1878.

  MISS LIZZIE HILGER: Your favor at hand. Among numerous applicants I
  have remembered yours. We desire several young ladies to strengthen
  the company for our Chicago and Boston engagements, and desire to
  meet you personally, if possible, to-morrow afternoon. You may
  object to coming to our office, so please pass the corner of
  Locust and Eighth Streets to-morrow afternoon (Thursday) about 2:30
  (half-past two) o'clock.

    Yours, respectfully,
    HARRY RUSSELL,
    Manager.

[Illustration: MME. FANNY JANAUSHEK.]

Here then was the "manager's" little game. Of course Harry Russell was
not the man's name at all, and of course he had no office to which
either Miss Ettie Holan or Miss Lizzie Hilger, or any of the four
other girls who had applied for positions through me, "might object
to coming," and of course he had nothing to do with strengthening any
company's Boston or Chicago engagements. It was evident now, if not
before, that the advertisement was a snare to trap the unwary and to
pull the wool over the eyes of the innocent and unsuspecting, and I
made up my mind to pay a visit to the locality named in the above
letters.

A visit was paid, after dinner, to the proposed place of meeting. On
the way up I met a detective friend, to whom my business was disclosed.
The detective said he would go along and "spot" the fellow for future
reference, and he did. Handsome Harry was found at his post, gazing up
and down and across the street. He was standing in front of a saloon,
on the corner, and a friend was hard by, who was to witness the success
of the little game. Now and then a young lady passed to or from her
home, and every time she came within sight "Manager" Harry began to
prepare himself for the "mash." The coat front was readjusted, the
shirt collar straightened up, the hat lifted from the head and the
fingers run through the hair, and, as a last and finishing touch, the
ends of his dainty moustache were fingered and carefully set away from
his lips with a silk handkerchief. But here came the young lady. How he
stared her in the face as she came towards him, ogled her when near by,
and cast a disconsolate and disappointed look after her as she passed.
Then he went back to communicate to his friend that she was probably
"not the one," or that "maybe she weakened," and again took his stand
to watch the next comer. This little business was gone through with
as many times as there were young ladies who passed. At last it was
evident to the two persons who had their eyes on Harry that he was
beginning to weaken, and was about to leave the place for a time at
least. Under these circumstances there was only one thing to do--to go
over and have a talk with him about the show business and make further
engagements for the young ladies who were so anxious to blossom forth
on the stage. The detective walked up to the man who was presumably
Harry Russell:

"Do you know of a man named Harry Russell stopping about here?" asked
the detective.

Harry was with his friend now, and both became almost livid in the face
and were evidently taken back by the inquiry.

"N-no; w-what is he?" stammered out Harry.

"I believe he's manager of a theatrical company."

"Harry" had somewhat regained his mental equilibrium by this time, and
answered positively: "Don't know him; never heard of him."

"Have you seen any man around in the past half hour? Russell made an
engagement to meet me here."

"I haven't been here but about ten minutes," and away "Harry" and his
friend sailed.

The detective and myself had been watching the pseudo manager for over
two hours from a room across the street, and, of course, knew there was
no truth in the measure he placed upon the time he was watching and
waiting for victims that never came. He was not a theatrical man, but
some dirty scamp.

Some time ago an advertisement of the same character as the "Personal"
quoted above, appeared in the Chicago papers, and many young ladies,
anxious to adopt the stage as a profession, applied for positions. They
obtained admission to the _quasi_ manager, who, when no resistance
was made by the applicants, shipped them to Texas and other Southern
points, where they found themselves perhaps penniless in the midst
of a life of uncertainties, into which they had been duped and to
which they had been sold. Many of these had been, and would still be,
respectable young girls and ornaments to their respective home circles,
were it not for the serpent with the fascinating eyes that peeped
out at them from under the three or four lines in the advertising
columns of that Chicago paper. Discoveries of the same kind were made
in several cities of the East, and it is dreadful to contemplate the
havoc which must have been wrought by this means, for surely many of
the hundreds of really good girls, who are always sure to answer such
an advertisement in the innocent belief that it may be the means of
making Neilsons, Cushmans, Morrises or some other equally firmamentary
individual in the galaxy of the stage of them, and who refused to be
debauched, were sorely disappointed in the result of their apparent
good fortune in obtaining the recognition of the "manager."

The following letter from a band of stage-struck young men of color is
an extraordinary document, and may be taken as a sample of the letters
received every day by theatrical managers:--

  Kansas City, 1789 [1879], January 14. Mr. De Bar, Dear Sir, I take
  thes opportunity of witring you theas few lines to ask you for an
  engagement at the Orepry [Opera] house if you can as we would like
  to get it if we can. i and my trop can do a great meny performence
  on the stage. W. H. Terrell he can do the Iron Joyrl [iron jaw]
  performence and do a Jig Dance and a Clog and Double Song and Dance
  and other tricks. Mr. Benjermer Frankler [Benjamin Franklin] waltz
  With a pail of water on his head and plays the frence harp the
  sanetime on the stage and laying down with it on his head and roal
  all over the floor and Jump 6 feet hiagh in the air on hand and
  feet. allso and we have the Best french harp players in the world
  that ever plaid on one. and leaping through a hoop of fire same
  as a circus. If you can git it for me pleas write soon and let me
  know. Sam Chrisman is one of my atcters. yours Truly, B. FRANKLIN.

  Excuse writing and paper. This is a Cold trop.

[Illustration: ROSE EYTINGE.]

It is hardly necessary for me to say Ben de Bar did not give the "Cold
trop" an engagement. Poor old Ben was dead at that time.




CHAPTER XV.

THE REHEARSAL.


When the seeker after histrionic honors has at last crossed the
threshold of the stage, he or she will find it entirely different from
the glitter and glory with which the imagination had clothed things
theatrical. The first revelation made to new-comers in the profession
is the rehearsal. This generally begins about ten A. M. and ends about
two P. M. In the old days of stock companies, performers had more
laborious work to perform than men who carry railroad iron out of,
or into, steamboats. Often there were new plays every night, which
meant new parts to be memorized, and rehearsals every day. Leaving the
theatre at eleven P. M., about the usual hour of closing a performance
at that time, the actor took his part with him, and instead of going
to his bed, was obliged to sit up and study his lines--no matter how
many lengths there were. Torn and worn out with his night's work on
the stage, and the mental toil that followed, it was often already
morning when the actor sought his couch. He was then obliged to be up
in a few hours and at the theatre at ten. If he absented himself there
was a fine that would materially reduce his already low salary. Where
was the room for enjoyment for the actor or actress in those days?
There was little opportunity given to anybody at all employed upon the
stage to be of dissolute habits or to indulge in any of the excesses
that pulpit-pounders and their intolerant and intolerable followers
generally charged against the profession. These super-moral individuals
could not make a distinction between the stage of the days of Mrs.
Bracegirdle and Mistress Woffington, of Mrs. Jordan and Mrs. Robinson,
when filth and licentiousness prevailed because the public found no
fault with it, and the same things were prevalent in ranks of the very
best society. Now that we have travelling combinations, and that one
part will last a man or woman who pays attention to business for a year
or more, the profession is not so heavily taxed; still there is plenty
of work, and there is little, if any, time to devote to any of the
pleasures or excesses that prurient piety points out as the portion of
players. But this is moralizing. Let us get back to the rehearsal. Less
than ten years ago a rehearsal might be found going on in any theatre
in the country between the hours of ten A. M. and two P. M. Now it
is a rare thing to find a rehearsal except on Monday, and in the few
cities where Sunday-night performances are given this day may be set
apart, when the opening or first performance is on the same night. As
travelling goes now, a company reaches a town either the night before,
or the morning of the day for their initial entertainment. No matter
what the time of arrival--unless it be, as often happens, that the
company gets off the train and to the theatre fifteen minutes before
the curtain is to go up--every member of the company will be expected
at the theatre in the morning for rehearsal, not so much to go through
their parts as to familiarize themselves with the entrances and exits
and the general arrangement of the house. The stage manager is there
and the orchestra is in its place. If it is comic opera there is a
rehearsal of the music, and if it is one of the musico-farcical or
burlesque pieces that were epidemic during the past two seasons, the
play will be rehearsed that the musicians may come in with their flare
up at the proper time.

A rehearsal is calculated to take all the starch out of the ambition
of a neophyte, and to drench his hopes in a sorrowful manner. The
stage bereft of its flood of light, of its gorgeous color and wealth
of splendor, is the darkest, dreariest, and most commonplace region in
the world. The buzz of saw and the clatter of hammer are heard in all
directions, while men in aprons, overalls, and greasy caps are making
the saw-and-hammer noises, and others even less romantic are dragging
about scenery or boxes; gas men are at work on the foot-lights, and
there is noise and confusion enough to set a whole villagefull of
sybarites crazy. Down in front a group of ladies and gentlemen are
moving about and talking. These are the players--the people we saw the
night before in rich attire, with glowing jewels and surrounded with
all the magnificence, wealth could bestow or royalty command. Now, the
king's crown is a black slouch hat and the royal robes are a dark sack
coat and vest, light trousers, and white shirt with picadilly collar.
The queen has a last-year bonnet on her head and a water-proof cloak
envelopes her form. The other actors are also in every-day dress, some
showing that their owners patronize first-class tailors and others
that they have been handed down from the shelves of cheap ready-made
clothing houses. The stage manager is pushing everybody around, and
the actors and actresses are talking at one another in lines. Some
have books of the play, for they are rehearsing, and all rattle over
their lines as if running a race with a locomotive that is drawing
Vanderbilt's special car over the road at its topmost speed. It is
impossible to understand what they are saying, and the on-looker would
be willing to wager a $10 gold piece against a silver dime with a hole
in it that the performers do not hear or understand each other. But a
California journalist has written a very truthful and funny account of
a rehearsal he attended in San Francisco. Olive Logan has it in her
book, but it is so good I will make use of it again. Here it is:--

[Illustration: AGNES BOOTH.]

You may get as perfect an idea of a play by seeing it rehearsed as you
would of Shakespeare from hearing it read in Hindustani. The first act
consists in an exhibition of great irritability and impatience by the
stage manager at the non-appearance of certain members of the troupe.
At what theatre? Oh, never mind what theatre. We will take liberties
and mix them thus:--

Stage Manager (calling to some one at the front entrance): "Send those
people in."

The people are finally hunted up one by one and go rushing down the
passage and on to the stage like human whirlwinds.

Leading Lady (reading): "My chains a-a-a-a-a rivet me um-um-um
(carpenters burst out in a tremendous fit of hammering) this man."

Star: "But I implore--buz-buz-buz--_never_--um-um" (great sawing of
boards somewhere).

Rehearsal reading, mind you, consists in the occasional distinct
utterance of a word, sandwiched in between large quantities of a
strange, monotonous sound, something between a drawl and a buz, the
last two or three words of the part being brought out with an emphatic
jerk.

Here Th----n rushes from the rear:--

"Now my revenge."

Star (giving directions): "No, you Mrs. H--s--n, stand there, and then
when I approach you, Mr. B--r--y, step a little to the left; then the
soldiers pitch into the villagers and the villagers into the soldiers,
and I shoot you and escape into the mountains."

Stage Manager (who thinks differently): "Allow me to suggest, Mr.
B----s, that"--(here the hammering and sawing burst out all over the
stage and drown everything).

This matter is finally settled. The decision of the oldest member
of the troupe having been appealed to, is adopted. Then Mr. Mc----h
is missing. The manager bawls "Mc----h!" Everybody bawls, "Mc----h!"
"Gimlet! Gimlet!" This is the playful rehearsal appellation for
_Hamlet_. Gimlet is at length captured and goes rushing like a
locomotive down the passage.

Stage Manager: "Now, ladies and gentlemen. All on!"

They tumble up the stage steps and gather in groups. H--l--n fences
with everybody. Miss H--w--n executes an imperfect _pas seul_.

Leading Lady: "I-a-a-a-a love-um-um-um--and-a-a-a another--"

Miss H--l--y, Miss M--d--e, or any other woman: "This engage-a-a-a my
son's um-um Bank Exchange."

A--d--n raises his hands and eyes to heaven, saying: "Great father!
he's drunk!"

Leading Lady (very energetically): "Go not, dearest Hawes! The
Gorhamites are a-a-a-um-um devour thee."

Mrs. S--n--s: "How! What!!"

Mrs. J----h: "Are those peasantry up there?"

Boy comes up to the stage and addresses the manager through his nose:
"Mr. G., I can't find him anywhere."

H----y J----n: "For as much as I"--(terrible hammering).

Nasal boy: "Mr. G., I can't find him anywhere."

L--c--h: "Stop my paper!"

Manager: "Mr. L., that must be brought out very strong; thus, _Stop my
paper!_"

L--c--h (bringing it out with an emphasis which raises the roof off the
theatre): "STOP MY PAPER!"

The leading lady hero goes through the motion of fainting and falls
against the star, who is partly unbalanced by her weight and momentum.
The star then rushes distractedly about, arranging the supernumeraries
to his liking. Ed--s and B--y walk abstractedly to and fro. S--n--r
dances to a lady near the wings. These impromptu dances seem to be a
favorite pastime on the undressed stage.

Second Lady: "Positively a-a-a- Tom Fitch um-um amusing a-aitch a-aitch
a-aitch!"

It puzzled me for a long time to find out what was meant by this
repetition of a-aitch. It is simply the reading of laughter. A-aitch is
where "the laugh comes in." The genuine pearls of laughter are reserved
for the regular performance. Actresses cannot afford to cachinate
during the tediousness and drudgery of rehearsal. Usually they feel
like crying.

Stage Manager: "We must rehearse this last act over again."

Everybody at this announcement looks broadswords and daggers. There
are some pretty pouts from the ladies, and some deep but energetic
profanity from the gentlemen.

[Illustration: "NOW, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, ALL TOGETHER."]

The California journalist has just about done justice to the subject. I
have attended rehearsals when it was utterly impossible to comprehend
whether they were reading Revelations or going through Mother Goose's
melodies. Drilling the chorus for opera is attained by the same trials
and tribulations as rehearsals for dramatic representations. The
leader grows furious at the surrounding noise, and the distractions
that members of the chorus give themselves up to. It is a bad thing
to get them together at first and harder still to keep them together
afterwards. When the leader with an atmosphere of the kindest humor
surrounding his smooth head holds his baton aloft imagining that
everything is all right, says: "Now, ladies and gentlemen, all
together," he gracefully lowers his arm, but suddenly arises in an
angry mood, for they are not all together. About one-half the throng
begin, and the other half loiter behind to drop in at intervals. And
so it goes from act to act until the opera is finished. The singers
are in street dress and the shabbiest of garments brush against the
most stylish. In rehearsing grand opera only one act is taken at a
time, and the scenes presented, with the mellifluous Italian and the
sweet-scented garlic floating around the stage, are picturesque to
the eye, charming to the ear, and simply entrancing to the nose. The
principals rehearse sitting.

[Illustration: TRAINING BALLET DANCERS.]

Ballet dancers have as hard work, if not harder than any other class
in the profession. They must rehearse or practice daily, and for hours
and hours at a time. The _maitre_ is there with cane and eye-glass,
with velvet coat and lavender trousers, to show them the motions,
and line after line the strength and limberness of the limbs of the
_corps de ballet_ are tested. From the premiere who sits with sealskin
sack over her stage costume with her pet dog by her side down to the
latest acquisition to the _maitre's_ (the ballet master's) corps,
all must be on hand to rehearse with or without music. In the latter
instance the steps are slowly but carefully gone through. Not only is
there a day rehearsal, but there is private individual rehearsal of
the steps at night previous to going on the stage; for there is much
grace in a _corps de ballet_, and no girl in love with her art wishes
to be considered awkward or in the rear; hence the emulation that
exists, and the private rehearsals in the dressing-room. Many of these
ballet dancers live poor lives, getting salaries which after buying
their stage dresses leaves them little for the cupboard and very little
to waste upon street costumes. Some are frail, and have admirers whose
purse-strings they pull wide open, and are therefore able to rustle
around in silks and sport rich golden and jewelled ornaments, while the
honest girls must sup at home on crusts and share the opprobrium their
shamless companions bring on the entire class. Ballet girls everywhere
have a throng of giddy, dissipating male followers, and those who
resist the temptations thrown in their way are deserving praise rather
than condemnation.

[Illustration: NATIONAL DANCES.]

Just as the Spanish have their Mauzai, the Hindoos their Nautch
girls, the Japanese that remarkable dance travellers have written so
frequently and so much about, and each country its own particular sway
or whirl, so this country seems to have taken kindly to the ballet.
When a ballet dancer--one of the famous dancers of the beginning of
the century--presented herself for the first time to an Albany, New
York, audience, the ladies rushed from the stage and there was almost
a panic. But it did not take long to accustom the Albanians to the
undraped drama, and they are as fond of it now as any of the rest of
the not over-scrupulous people of the country. Not so many years ago,
there was a ballet every night in the first-class variety theatres;
now there are few, except in the East, that have this feature, and for
this reason--the abandonment of it in the West and South--the people
who draw conclusions from everything they see and hear cry out that the
ballet is dying out. This is not so. The ballet has been dropped from
the list of attractions in the West, because the managers thought it
too costly an institution for them to carry and not because the people
did not want it. Some of the best paying theatrical investments of the
day are based upon the fascinating and drawing qualities of a displayed
female limb. Burlesque with its blonde attributes kept the country in
a rage for many years, and the reason why it is so rare now is that
comic opera and the minor musical attractions of the _quasi_ legitimate
stage have usurped its principal feature--the leg show--and under the
cover of art get the patronage of people who would shun burlesques, and
at the same time supply the demand of about three-fourths of the male
persuasion who are as fond of as much anatomy in pink tights as the law
will allow them. If any one thinks the ballet is on the decay just let
him wait until such an attraction is announced in his neighborhood and
then stand back and count as the bald-headed brigade goes to the front.

And for those who take any interest in the ballet, or care to hear
anything about the women who have become famous as dancers, the
following bit of history which I found in Gleason's _Pictoral_ for 1854
will be very agreeable reading: "A recent performance at her majesty's
theatre in London has been signalized by an event unparalleled in
theatrical annals, and one which, some two score years hence, may be
handed down to a new generation by garrulous septuagenarians as one of
the most brilliant reminiscences of days gone by. The appearance of
four such dancers as Taglioni, Cerito, Carlotta Grisi and Lucile Grahn,
on the same boards and in the same _pas_, is truly what the French
would call "_une solemnite theatrale_," and such a one as none of those
who beheld it are likely to witness again. It was therefore as much a
matter of curiosity as of interest, to hurry to the theatre to witness
this spectacle; but every other feeling was merged in admiration when
the four great dancers commenced the series of picturesque groupings
with which this performance opens. Perhaps a scene was never witnessed
more perfect in all its details. The greatest of painters, in his
loftiest flights, could hardly have conceived, and certainly never
executed, a group more faultless and more replete with grace and poetry
than that formed by these four danseuses. Taglioni in the midst, her
head thrown backwards, apparently reclining in the arms of her sister
nymphs. Could such a combination have taken place in the ancient palmy
days of art, the pencil of the painter and the pen of the poet would
have alike been employed to perpetuate its remembrance. No description
can render the exquisite, and almost ethereal grace of movement and
attitude of these great dancers, and those who have witnessed the
scene, may boast of having once, at least, seen the perfection of
the art of dancing so little understood. There was no affectation, no
apparent exertion or struggle for effect on the part of these gifted
artistes; and though they displayed their utmost resources, there was
a simplicity and ease, the absence of which would have completely
broken the spell they threw around the scene. Of the details of this
performance it is difficult to speak. In the solo steps executed by
each danseuse, each in turn seemed to claim pre-eminence. Where every
one in her own style is perfect, peculiar individual taste alone may
balance in favor of one or the other, but the award of public applause
must be equally bestowed; and the _penchant_ for the peculiar style,
and the admiration for the dignity, the repose and the exquisite grace
which characterize Taglioni, and the dancer who has so brilliantly
followed the same track (Lucile Grahn), did not prevent the warm
appreciation of the charming archness and twinkling steps of Carlotta
Grisi, or the wonderful flying leaps and revolving bounds of Cerito.
Though each displayed her utmost powers, the emulation of the fair
dancers was unaccompanied by envy. Every time a shower of boquets
descended on the conclusion of a solo _pas_ of one or the other of the
fair _ballerine_, her sister dancers came forward to assist her in
collecting them. The applause was universal and equally distributed.
This, however, did not take from the excitement of the scene. The
house, crowded to the roof, presented a concourse of the most eager
faces, never diverted, for a moment, from the performance; and the
extraordinary tumult of enthusiastic applause, joined to the delightful
effect of the spectacle presented, imparted to the whole scene an
interest and excitement that can hardly be imagined by those not
present."

[Illustration: MARION ELMORE.]




CHAPTER XVI.

CANDIDATES FOR SHORT CLOTHES.


About a week before the date of the opening of a spectacular play at
any metropolitan theatre an advertisement reading something like this
appears in the want columns of the daily papers:--

  Wanted--Three hundred girls for the ballet in "The Blue Huntsman,"
  at Bishop's Theatre. Call at stage-door at ten A. M. Monday.

In this simple advertisement the theatrical instinct which prompts
the press agent to exaggerate facts concerning his attraction is very
beautifully displayed. The number of girls wanted is probably not in
excess of fifty; still the local manager does not care to waste money
upon this little advertisement without getting an advertisement for his
show out of it. Monday morning brings a number of applicants--not as
large a number as such an advertisement would have attracted in former
years, but still enough to meet the demands of the ballet master, who
has come on ahead of his troupe to select the girls and give them a
little training, just sufficient training to tone down the rough edges
of their awkwardness and to drill them in the marches in which they
will be expected to participate. The girls, as they come in singly
or in pairs--shyly and coyly approaching the stage-door, but taking
courage at the sight of the others who are there before them--are
told to come around again in the afternoon, or perhaps the following
morning to meet the ballet. There doesn't seem to be any particular
choice in getting up a ballet of this kind. A round-shouldered,
broad-waisted, squint-eyed, red-headed girl has her name entered on
the stage manager's book as readily as the charming little blonde
who looks as if she belonged to the upper walks of life, and appears
many degrees more accomplished, graceful, and intelligent than the
strabismal, carroty-headed creature who has preceded her. When all have
been registered, up to the requisite number, some of the astonished
and delighted candidates, after having learned that they will receive
$4 or $6, or, maybe, $8, for the week's services, lose themselves in
the intricacies of the scenery and wonder at the beauties of the new
world in which they find themselves. Their next visit brings them
into the presence of the ballet master, who regards them physically,
scrutinizing each as the name is called, and seldom rejecting any
not absolutely deformed who appear before him. They are sent to the
costumer's and their work begins at once. All they are required to do
is to run up and down or around the stage in drills and marches, or
to group themselves in heart-rending tableaux at intervals during the
dance. The best--that is, the girls who are quick to perceive and swift
to accomplish the commands of the master, are selected for leaders and
for the principal work in this subordinate branch of the spectacle. Day
after day they are drilled until the night of the first performance
arrives, when, often in tights that do not fit them, in costumes
that are wrinkled and dirty, they flash in all their awkwardness and
gloominess upon the scene, to be laughed at, and to detract from
instead of adding to the beauty of the spectacle.

A newspaper writer of experience in this line says: Few of those
who observe and admire the graceful attitudes, easy movements, and
picturesque evolutions of the well-trained chorus or ballet in an
opera have any adequate conception of the amount of practice and hard
work necessary for the stage of perfection arrived at. A number of
years ago, when ballet girls were in greater demand than at present,
an advertisement inserted in New York papers or those of any other
large city for material to fill up the _corps de ballet_ would bring
in applicants by dozens, and sometimes even by hundreds. The same
is true in a less degree to-day, but at that time the wages paid to
working girls were far more meagre than at the present time, and the
few dollars per week to be obtained in the theatre was a princely sum
by comparison, and, though the engagement be but a few weeks, the
opportunity was gladly accepted.

The great majority of these applicants come from the lower working
class, who are induced by pecuniary motives alone to exhibit
themselves. They show in their faces and forms the traces of hard work
and poor living, and an expert master of the ballet has need of all his
skill to train them and dispose them on the stage so that their natural
disadvantages of form may be kept as much as possible from public view.
Now and then, however, there is a case where the glamour of the stage
has so fascinated girls in better circumstances that they are ready to
begin at any round of the ladder in a profession that seems so entirely
imbued with roseate tints. It is the exception, and not the rule, for
these to persevere; for, when brought face to face with the stern
realities of the case, their ardor is dampened, the world seems hollow,
"their dolls are stuffed with sawdust," and they are prepared to cry
out _vanitas vanitatum_, and enjoy the rest of their stage experiences
from the other side of the foot-lights.

These girls vary somewhat in age, but the majority of them are not
above twenty, as a general rule. In making an application, they present
themselves first to the stage manager. He takes note of their age,
size, appearance and general contour of figure, and if he be favorably
impressed sends them to the costumer. He, in his turn, hands them over
to the women in his employ. There they are compelled to strip and
undergo a complete examination of their limbs and form, and on the
physical examination depends their acceptance or rejection.

In companies where the ballet girls are simply female supernumeraries
and do nothing but march about while the danseuse and coryphees engage
the attention of the audience, any extended amount of training is
not necessary. Care is only taken to obtain girls of ordinarily fair
physique and teach them to march correctly with the music. But even
this is no small task.

These girls are naturally fitted for anything but this business, and
it is ludicrous to observe the positions they assume and the gait they
adopt. Impressed with the idea that they must act and walk differently
from their usual custom, they twist their bodies and stalk about in a
manner that is beyond description. These improvised ballets generally
present an exhibition of stiffness and awkwardness at the first public
appearance; but that is not to be compared with the ungainly antics of
a first rehearsal. In cases where greater pains are taken, and where
the ballet girls go through many intricate evolutions, the rehearsals
are continued daily, when possible, for a period of six or eight weeks,
and some idea of the trials of a ballet master may be gathered from the
contrast of the first rehearsal and the first performance.

A gentleman of long experience in theatrical matters says in a talk
with an interviewer: "Well, I should think I ought to know something
about ballet girls. Why, when I used to be at the Old Comique they
were as plentiful as supers and used to appear as peasant girls in the
regular drama.

[Illustration: DRILLING FOR THE CHORUS.]

"The rehearsals would be frightfully confusing to an outsider. During
the last rehearsal, before a piece of this kind is put on, the stage
looks like a perfect pandemonium. The chorus is being put through its
final drill on one side, the actors are practising their entrances,
exits, and cues on the other; behind, the scene painter and his
assistants are daubing away, and the trap man and gas man are both
working away in their line."

"What kind of girls were they for the most part?"

"Oh, they came out of factories and all that; they could make from
$6 to $8 a week on the stage, a good deal better than they could do
at their old business. We used to have such a lot of applicants then
we could pick out a pretty good crowd. Some of them were very nice,
respectable girls, but the associations ruined most of them. A good
many of them were rather fly when they first came in, and besides
being crooked would put on any amount of lug among their companions
outside. After playing in the ballet two or three weeks for $6 or $7 a
week, they would go around and say that they were actresses, playing
an engagement at the Opera House, but they didn't know exactly how
long they should stay there. I wouldn't be at all surprised if they
talked about starring it in another season; that's what all these
fly-by-nights at the theatres do now. Why, do you know I have had
people come to me and ask what part Miss So-and-So was taking, and on
looking into the matter I would find that she was a ballet girl."

"Can't you tell me of some cases of girls who have a little romance
about their history?"

"Well, possibly, but to one behind the scenes there is little enough of
the romantic, I can tell you. I remember another case of a girl, one of
the prettiest and best behaved we had--quite a modest little thing, in
fact. But she got picked up by a middle-aged rake, and went to the bad.
I do not know her whole story, but I know she used to meet this fellow
after the performance very often. After a time she stated in confidence
to one of her companions that she was married to him, and I have no
doubt that she thought she was. She left the theatre after a few weeks
and went to live with him. But I guess it didn't last long, for I saw
her several years afterwards in one of the lowest travelling companies
I know of, as vile and broken-down a wreck as you ever saw. If there is
any romance in the lives of these girls, this is generally the style of
it."

"Do these girls ever rise in the profession?"

"Oh, yes, some of our best actresses rise from the ranks. It would make
a cat laugh, though, to see the first time they have a little speaking
part in a regular drama. A girl can get along all right as long as her
individuality is concealed in the ranks, but when she has to step to
the front and say a few words, she waltzes up as though she was walking
on eggs. She looks as if she would like to fall through the stage,
swallows and hesitates, and puts you in doubt as to whether you ought
to laugh or pity her."

Here is a writer who takes another view of the affair: "To the
uninitiated male citizen the period of supreme interest in affairs
behind the scenes is the period of a grand ballet or spectacular show,
where a hundred or two girls, who have undergone an examination of
their faces, shoulders and limbs, and been accepted as presentable
upon the stage, don tights and make their bow to the public. It is
not always easy to secure the required number of girls who have the
requisite qualifications for an appearance in tights. Girls who
have never been on are extremely bashful about making their first
appearance. The majority of the girls who answer the call for 'ladies
for the ballet' are shop girls, girls who take work to their homes,
girls suddenly thrown out of employment, poor girls who have no other
way of honestly earning a dollar. There are a few who have been in the
ballet a number of times before. They have come to look upon it very
much as a business. They knit and sew and crochet and do fancy-work
behind the scenes during the stage waits. Their pay is liberal
compared with what they can earn even in ways that are considered
more respectable, and they have the novelty and excitement, which, of
course, are something of an attraction in themselves. Considerable
judgment has to be exercised in the selection of those who aspire to
the costume of a pair of tights and trunks or a gauze dress. It is a
lamentable fact that all ladies are not plump and symmetrical, and
for those lacking these charms there is no door to the ballet stage.
Once accepted as a constituent part of a pageant which is to disport
itself before the foot-lights, the _figurante_ has a wide field for
conquest open to her. It's man's weakness to be forever 'getting gone'
on the favorites of the foot-lights, to believe them all beautiful and
luscious as they seem from the front of the house. And so it is that
the watchman at the stage-door and call-boys divide between them many
a dollar for carrying in _billet-doux_ from the great army of mashed
masculines. 'Another sucker dead gone,' mutters the call-boy as he
pockets his liberal fee as mail-carrier. Perhaps the fair object of the
masher's admiration 'won't have it,' but there are among her sisters
those who, to a promisingly liberal and attractive stranger, would not
let the lack of an introduction stand in the way of their graciousness.
''Sh,' they say to the call-boy. ''Sh! Don't say a word. Tell him we'll
see him later. Look for us at the stage-door when our act is over.'"

[Illustration: THE "SUCKER."]

And now let us see how they do these things in France, where the cancan
nourishes and the Jardin Mabille, with its high kickers, is the temple
towards which pleasure-seeking pilgrims bend when they visit their
Mecca--La Belle Paris. A visitor to the dancing green-room of the Grand
Opera, there, will find that at night it is brilliantly lighted, and
the effect of the gas-jets is greatly increased by the numerous large
mirrors which almost conceal the walls. In front of each of these
mirrors stands a wooden post a little higher than one's waist, and
before a dancing girl sets off, she raises one foot after the other
until she places it horizontally on one of these posts, where she
keeps it for some time, then quitting this position and taking hold of
the post with one hand she practices all her steps, and after having
in this way "set herself off," she waters the floor with a handsome
watering-pot, and before the large mirrors, which reach down to the
mop-board, she goes through all the steps she is about to dance on the
stage. The leading dancing girls commonly wear old pumps and small
linen gaiters, very loose, in order to avoid soiling their stockings or
stocking-net. When the call-boy gives his first notice, they hasten to
throw off their gaiters and put on new pumps, chosen for their softness
and suppleness, whose seams they have carefully stitched beforehand.
The call-boy appears at the door, "Mesdemoiselles, now's your time! the
curtain is up!" and the flock of dancing girls hasten to the stage.
Among the Parisian ballet corps one sees the strangest vicissitudes
of fortune, the most wonderful ups and downs of life. Some, who
yesterday were glad to receive the meanest charity of their comrades,
who joyfully accepted old dancing pumps, and wore them for shoes, and
faded bonnets and thrice-mended clothes, appear to-day in lace, silks,
cashmeres, with coachman, valet, carriage and pair. The sufferings,
the privations, the fatigue, and the courage of these poor girls ere
the miserable worm, the chrysalis, is metamorphosed into the brilliant
butterfly, cannot be conceived. Bread and water support the life of
more than half of them; many would be glad to feel sure of it regularly
twice a day. A great number who live three or four miles from the Grand
Opera trudge that distance almost shoeless to their morning dancing
lesson, rehearsals, and evening performances, and on their return home,
long after midnight, in the summer's rains and the winter's snows,
nothing buoys them up but the fond hope, often delusive, that the
future has a brighter and better time in store for them.

The Nautch dancers, mentioned in the preceding chapter, are consecrated
to the temple from childhood, and the graceful and fascinating poses
to which the people of this country have been introduced by an
enterprising American, are portions of their sacred dances before the
shrines of their dizzy deities. I think four of these girls came to
this country originally, and all but one died. Still, there were forty
so-called Nautch dancers put upon the variety stage and in specialty
troupes, ordinary but clever American ballet girls being painted for
the occasion, and dressed in a semi-oriental costume. They made no
pretensions to do the Nautch dance, in which the swaying of the body,
keeping time with the feet, and howling a lugubrious hymn are the
features, there being no hopping or whirling around; but the fraudulent
Nautch girls of the specialty troupes pirouetted and pranced in the
steps of the old-time ballet, with which we all ought to be familiar if
we are not.




CHAPTER XVII.

TRAINING BALLET DANCERS.


"Well, now, I don't think that's so awful hard," said a fellow knight
of the pencil, one evening as we both leaned upon the rear row of
chairs in the old Theatre Comique at St. Louis, since destroyed by
fire, and bent our heads forward in an inquisitive look at the ballet
of "The Fairy Fountain," or something of that sort. The remark was
meant to apply to the evolutions of the premiere as she spun around
on one toe and threw a graceful limb up towards the roof of the house
every time she gave a whirl.

"If you don't," said I, "you just try it once, and you'll find out
exactly how hard it is."

I had made this retort wildly and without knowing, myself, anything
much about the difficulties of ballet dancing. It dawned on me that
here was an excellent field for inquiry, so having obtained the
permission of Manager W. C. Mitchell, who was running the Comique, to
go behind the scenes to interview the ballet master; next evening found
me early at the stage door. I was soon inside picking my way through
the labyrinth of scenery, stage properties, scene shifters, supers,
actors and people generally who crowd and jostle each other in this
mimic world, and I was in imminent danger every now and then of an
_impromptu_ debut before the public, and of finding myself standing
figuratively on my head before an unappreciative audience. At last the
ballet master--Sig. J. F. Cardella, a thin, wiry man who seemed to be
in the decline of life--was found in his tights, leaning in an easy
attitude against one of the "wings."

"_Bona sera, Signor_," I said in the best Italian I could muster.

"_Grazia_," returned the _maitre_ in the most welcoming manner in
the world, as he invited me to a quiet corner where we sat down on a
cracker-box.

The object of the visit was briefly explained, and Sig. Cardella
rattled off his answers in a ready and intelligible manner, the
sweet Italian accents falling from his tongue with the same rapidity
and precision that he twinkled his feet in the ballet when occasion
required. He said he had made his first appearance in the ballet
twenty years before, when he was twenty years of age. He had been put
in training, like other children, at the age of twelve years, in the
Theatre La Scala--the government school--which has given the world so
many famous dancers. Here he remained eight years.

"Children," said Cardella, "are admitted to this school as early as
ten years and as late as twelve, and there is a regular routine of
study that cannot be finished in less than eight years. It is long and
arduous, and especially difficult when it is understood that pupils in
this country arrive at stage honors in an immensely less time, in fact
in as many months as we are required to put in years of study in the
old country."

"I suppose La Scala is under the tuition of the very best masters,"
said I.

"Oh yes, indeed," responded the _maitre de ballet_, assuringly; "my
first teacher was the celebrated Blozis, and after him Ousse, both
French, and both great masters."

"But old?"

[Illustration: DONNA JULIAS' EYES.]

"Yes, old; but they had their stage triumphs, and the recollection of
these kept their limbs strong and their joints almost as supple as they
had been in their younger years, when they themselves went forth from
La Scala as premieres, to win the applause of the public."

"Boys and girls are admitted to La Scala?"

"Boys and girls; but all must pass a physical examination just as
applicants for army service are required to do. If they are fortunate
in having been endowed by nature with health and symmetry of form they
are received into the school and enter at once upon its rigorous course
of training. Oh, I tell you a ballet school is not the same here as it
is in the old country. There must be perfect silence; not a word from
the moment the master appears before the line of pupils, and after that
nothing but the motions of the hundred or more bodies and the beating
of the master's stick upon the floor."

"How long must they practice each day?"

"Well, before they are supposed to enter the academy at all, they must
have had one or two years' practice outside. In the academy they have
four hours' practice under the direction of the master every day; but
many of them do more work than this, especially the most ambitious.
I used to practice from eight to twelve hours daily, and even after
having left the academy I kept up my daily exercise for increasing the
limberness of the joints and the toughness of the cartilages. The more
practice, the nearer perfection."

"I suppose the pupils are divided into classes, are they not?"

[Illustration: OBERON AND TITANIA.

    OBERON:--What thou see'st when thou dost wake
             Do it for thy true love take.

                _Midsummer Night's Dream, Act II., Scene 3._
]

"Yes; we have four lines of dancers in Italy. You have only three here.
We place our coryphees fartherest off from the premiere; you put them
alongside. The beginners at La Scala go into the coryphee class, from
which they are gradually advanced to the _secunda lina_, then to the
_prima lina_, and, afterwards, to solo parts, when they practically
become premieres."

"But eight years," I suggested, "is a long time to be working without
any return in the shape of either money or glory?"

"Ah, there you are mistaken," Cardella answered, pleased to find that
newspaper men sometimes make mistakes. "The pupils at La Scala are paid
something from the time they enter the academy. They first, while mere
coryphees, get thirty francs a month; in the second line, sixty francs;
in the third, eighty; and when advanced to solo parts, two hundred
francs a month. At this they stop until they finish their schooling,
when they take places in the principal theatres, make the usual tour of
the provinces and of the continent, and finally settle down, if they
have not become famous, to some solid competency, just as I have done
myself."

"So much for the dancing boys and girls of Italy; but how about the
ballet in this country?"

"Oh, it is nothing like what Europe produces. You have no schools here
except the theatres, and girls when they come to learn the ballet, as
they have often came to me, ask: 'Do you think I can dance in a week
or two?' It is absurd the way they want to do. Why, in my country I
practised for eight years before I would be allowed to appear publicly
in the theatre, and had practised two years before that at home, and
yet these American girls think they can become good dancers in a week
or two."

"What do you say to such applicants?"

"I say, 'No, you can't dance in a week or two, nor in a month or two;
but if you want to practice for several months I can place you on the
stage.' And I say this because I know American girls can make good
dancers if they are in earnest and apply themselves hard; they can make
passable ballet girls even if they give only a fair share of their
attention to the study."

"What do you think of the American ballet?"

[Illustration: MEASURING FOR THE COSTUME.]

"It cannot be good, of course, as long as the public does not give it
the attention and patronage it requires to make it good. In the old
country the ballet is everything; in this it is comparatively nothing.
They make it subservient to everything else on the stage. Managers
do not care to pay for good troupes, and the troupes are consequently
small and poor."

"But is there not plenty of employment for good ballet dancers?"

"Always. Each company has few that can be ranked as soloists, and this
is because good dancers are not numerous. As I have suggested before,
the American girl is not sufficiently ambitious in this line; their
stage yearnings are mostly for speaking parts on the dramatic stage,
and they are not very devout worshippers at the shrine of Terpsichore."

"How are American ballet girls paid?"

"Pretty well; but nothing like what they got before the war. Madame
Gallati, who was my wife, before the rebellion, never got less than
$150 a week, and after the war was paid $100. Premieres now do not get
more than $75, and they are in very good luck when they get that much.
The coryphees and others get from $35 a week down as low as $15. And
out of this they must furnish their own wardrobes. They must lay out
from $5 a week upwards for their stage clothes, and when a ballet is on
that requires rich dressing the wardrobes may exceed their whole week's
salary; but then, you know, they can prepare for an emergency of this
kind by laying by a portion of the salary of the weeks in which no new
ballet is brought out. Some of the ballets run for a month, but the
usual run is two weeks."

"The _maitre_ does not always dance?"

"No, he dances very seldom; but he earns his money though. He is kept
busy two or three hours every day, Sunday included, teaching the old
and young ideas of the ballet, how to shoot out their limbs, pose,
pirouette, etc. It requires all the time I can give to it to prepare
a new ballet. Just as soon as a new one is put on the stage I begin
to train the girls in another one, and this training is kept up until
the day before the novelty is to be presented to the public. During
this time of preparation I have the entire troupe on the stage two
hours every morning, except matinee days, when, of course, there is no
rehearsal. I show them the steps and they have to practice them. They
are supposed to practice some at home, but, of course, the majority of
them never do so."

"Have you many applicants now-a-days?"

"Not very many. Once in a while a girl or two will apply, but nearly
all of them are unworthy in point of physique to be received, and so
are sent away. I do not care so much for nice features, for the ugliest
can be embellished sufficiently to look handsome before the foot-lights
but good forms are indispensable, and particularly strong, symmetrical
limbs. The applicants come from all grades and classes of life, and not
a few are young girls of good but obscure connection, who have ambition
to win glory and money and all that sort of thing from the public, and
who fondly imagine that the ballet girl lives a butterfly existence,
instead of being the hardworking, temptation-beset creature that she
really is."

"And they all want to get on the stage in a very short time?"

"Yes, the invariable question is, 'Can I dance in a few weeks?' and
then they want me to show them the 'steps' and to let them try to
duplicate them. I tell them there is no use; if they want to dance they
must, as the Irishman says, begin at the beginning. You can't know
music without learning the notes; you can't read without knowing the
A B C; and so with the ballet, you can't dance without first having
acquired its alphabet."

[Illustration: M. B. CURTIS, IN SAM'L OF POSEN.]

"How do you generally start a pupil out?"

"They have got to go to what we call the 'sideboard' practice
first; that is, they must take hold of something for a rest, and go
through the first five steps"--and here the _maitre_ got up from the
cracker-box, and taking hold of a "wing," placed his feet heel to heel,
turned them out straight without bending the knees into an unsightly
attitude, and said this was the first step; the four others were much
the same as the attitudes taken at different times by elocutionists,
one foot being pushed forward and then another. "Then I show them how
to do this," and he began twisting one leg after another backward and
forward until I thought he would twist both off, but he didn't. "After
that," continued Sig. Cardella, "which in this country takes about a
month, but in La Scala takes six months, I begin to show them a step or
two at a time, and gradually lead them up until they know a little."

"But now and then we see a very fresh and green foot, if I may use the
expression, on the stage."

"Oh, of course; we've got to make up a fair number for a troupe
sometimes, and I then allow a girl to go on, whom I think smart
enough not to make a fool of herself. You see although the American
girl is smart and sharp, and pretty original in many other things,
she is entirely imitative in dancing. She watches the other girls,
and although she may not even be fairly grounded in the fundamental
principles of ballet dancing, she frequently faces an audience and does
well--sometimes astonishingly well in fact. Some of these girls climb
up out of the ranks very fast; others who are lazy and give too much
time to flirting and drinking wine, remain in the same line, usually
the last, for years, and are really in a ballet master's way all the
time."

"How are ballet girls as a class?"

"Some of them," said Cardella, with a shake of his head and an
expression of pity on his face, "are a little fond and foolish at
times."

"And they have their admirers who bother them, in and out of the
theatre, and send them pretty presents, big boquets and such?"

[Illustration: A PREMIERE BEFORE THE AUDIENCE.]

"Oh well, now, I know very little about that. Some of them have
families to support, and manage to wear better clothes and more jewelry
than their salaries could pay for. I could tell you lots of funny
incidents about ballet girls, billet-doux and Billy boys, but you see
that nigger act is nearly through, and I've got to go and look after
my girls." And with an "_Adio, Signor!_" and a wave of his hand, he
withdrew.

I went up to the Alcazar on Monday night to see Bonfanti dance. I
have a great respect for Bonfanti. She is a woman of character. When
she first danced here the town was wild about her, and one young man,
the son of rich and proud parents, offered her his hand in marriage.
She hesitated for awhile, but he argued that because he was rich and
his parents proud was no reason that he should be made unhappy by her
refusal to marry him. She thought it over and came to the conclusion
that he was right. So Mlle. Bonfanti became Mrs. Hoffman forthwith. The
hue and cry raised by the Hoffmans was so violent that the young man
could not stand it, and took his wife to Europe. His family allowed him
little or no money, and he, having been very unpractically educated,
could find no means of support. He was delicate and he fell ill and
died. Then Bonfanti, or Mrs. Hoffman, came to New York to claim her
rights as the wife of the son and heir of the Hoffmans, but they
behaved in a way that wounded her pride--for ballet dancers as well
as Hoffmans have pride--and she declined to accept any aid from them
whatever. "As long as I have my feet to dance with," she said, "I can
take care of myself, and I want none of their money." So she went
back to the ballet, and has been dancing ever since. I couldn't help
thinking as I looked at her the other night, that scions of proud New
York families had often made worse matches. She has a good and still
handsome face, and she dances as gracefully as ever. She is modest even
when pointing at the foot-lights with one toe and at the chandelier
with the other. Bonfanti is not one of the grinning dancers. Her face
wears a rather sad expression, and she only smiles in acknowledgment of
the applause of the audience. The competition with Lepri makes her do
her best, and it is a regular dancing match every night.




CHAPTER XVIII.

PLAYS AND PLAYWRIGHTS.


At seven o'clock one morning during the season of 1881-2 a tall, gawky,
angular-looking young man in a suit of smutty and wrinkled gray, under
a battered slouch hat with a bandit curl to its wide brim, stood at
the door of one of the rooms of the Southern Hotel in St. Louis. He
had a big bundle under his arm, and seemed tired, as indeed he was,
for he had climbed four pairs of stairs and walked the lower hall-ways
from one end to the other looking for the room which he had now found.
He knocked kindly at first, but got no answer; knocked again with the
same result, and again and again. The fifth time somebody said "Come
in," and the young man twisted the knob and in a moment was standing
at the bedside of the late Oscar G. Bernard, business manager of the
Couldock-Ellsler Hazel Kirke Company. Bernard was still in bed and very
sleepy.

"I've got a play I want to read to you," said the young man, shifting
the bundle he had under his arm down into his hands, where Mr. Bernard
could see it.

"A what?" the manager exclaimed, rising hurriedly upon his elbow and
looking out through drowsy eyelids at a pile of foolscap manuscript big
enough to fill a French Cyclopedia.

"A play," was the visitor's answer, in a quiet, unalarmed tone.

"Is that it?" Bernard asked, as he eyed the package of manuscript with
astonishment.

"Yes, sir; there are only 439 pages."

"Oh, is that all? How many characters, scenes, and acts, and how long
do you think it would take to play it?" asked the manager, trying to be
as sarcastic as possible.

"There are forty-seven characters in the _dramatis personæ_," the
playwright answered, nothing daunted, "nine acts, and it might take
three hours or more to play it through."

"How many people get killed in it?"

"Only thirteen."

"Oh, pshaw!" said the manager; "go and kill off thirty more of 'em
and then you will have a play worth talking about. You've got to kill
somebody off every five minutes to make it stick. You needn't leave any
more of them alive than just enough to group into a happy tableau at
the end of the last act."

"I don't think I can do it," said the playwright.

"Oh, yes, you can," the manager insisted. "Just try it once; and here,
take this pass and go and see 'Hazel Kirke' to-night. It plays only
until eleven o'clock, and we don't think it quite long enough. If
you could tone your play down so that we might use it for a kind of
prologue or something of that sort it would be better."

The young man took the pass and departed. He was the queerest dramatist
the country and century have produced, except possibly A. C. Gunter. He
was fully six feet high, large and sharp-featured, with a light like
lunacy dazzling in his black eyes and across his sallow face. His hands
were large and his feet big, and as he ambled along the hotel hall he
looked like an over-grown plowboy who had suddenly and mysteriously
turned book-peddler. Besides all this he seemed very hungry.

Early the next morning he was at Bernard's bedside again. He had seen
"Hazel Kirke," and thought over the manager's advice, but had not made
the changes suggested because he was of the opinion now more than ever
that the play would suit Mr. Bernard. Would the manager allow him to
read it out to him? Its title was "Love and the Grave." The manager
said he might leave the manuscript to be looked over during the day,
but the dramatist said he preferred to read it so that none of the
good points would be lost. Then the manager told him to call again. He
called again early the next morning. The manager was still too busy
and too sleepy to hear the play. The dramatist said he hated to part
from his manuscript; he had been five years writing the play, but he
liked Mr. Bernard and would leave it with him for twenty-four hours.
The manager suggested that there was a possibility of the play being
lost if the hotel were to take fire, but the young man answered that
he had ascertained that the hotel was fire-proof, and he was willing
to take the chances. He went away leaving the voluminous manuscript in
the manager's possession. Of course Bernard didn't read it, but when
the dramatist returned Friday morning he told him it was very good,
and if the dramatist cared he could give him a letter to the manager
of a Chinese theatre in San Francisco, who would be glad to purchase
and produce such a play. The dramatist hoisted his manuscript under his
arm, said he was sorry the Madison Square people couldn't use it, and
went out hungrier-looking and more awkward than ever. Bernard hoped
that it was the last of him.

But it was not. While Bernard was in John T. Raymond's room the
following afternoon a knock was heard at the door and in walked the
dramatist. He did not recognize Mr. Bernard but told Raymond in piteous
tones that the man he (Raymond) had recommended him to would not
allow him to read the play, and didn't want it. A light flashed upon
Bernard. Raymond laughed heartily. Bernard did not laugh. It was one
of the comedian's practical jokes. He had sent the Illinois dramatist
to the "Hazel Kirke" manager with positive instructions to insist upon
reading the Chinese play to him. After the comedian had had his laugh,
he pulled a nickel with a hole in it out of his pocket, and, turning to
the playwright, said:--

"I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll match you for the play. If I win I
take the manuscript. If you win you take the nickel."

The dramatist was disgusted. He said all he wanted was money enough to
get back to Springfield, Ill., where he edited a daily paper. If he had
that he would be happy. Bernard and Raymond each gave him a $5 bill and
sent him on his way rejoicing.

The trials and tribulations of the gawky young dramatist from
the Sucker State is but a slightly exaggerated and caricaturish
recital of the difficulties that have been lying in the path of
American dramatists ever since we made anything like an attempt at a
distinctively national dramatic literature. It has been all along,
pretty much the same with the young American who wrote a play as it
was with the seedy English authors of Sheridan's time. Fresh from his
garret, and as hungry for fame and fortune as he was badly in need of a
meal, the young man who had written a drama appeared in shabby-genteel
attire at the door of the manager's office, and after introducing
himself, handed over his manuscript, which was tossed into a drawer
or box, while the poor author, trembling with agitation, was told to
return in a week or month. You may be sure the days and nights were
nervously passed until the appointed time rolled around. Then, bright
and early, still hopeful and still hungry, the author was at the
manager's door.

"Well, sir, what do you wish?" was the abrupt and startling greeting
accorded the author.

"I suppose you have read my play"--

"What play?"

The author names it and the manager sternly says: "No, sir, I haven't
read it and know nothing about it. When did you leave it here?"

"A month ago, sir."

"Well I don't think it would do me any good to read it. I haven't
either the time or the inclination. If you want it search in that box,
and if you can't find your own you can take your choice of any of those
in there."

This was, of course, a crusher. The young author moved away with a
bleeding heart, and his armful of manuscript, and the stage to which
his hopes and ambition had been attracted probably never offered him
an opportunity to have his play damned on a first night. American
dramatists are to-day pretty much in the same plight in regard to
American managers and the American stage. Very few of our dramatic
authors have received proper recognition, and few who have toiled at
writing and dramatizing for years have much fame or money to show for
their work. American managers have a rage for foreign works, and just
now are pouring thousands of dollars into the pockets of English and
French playwrights, whose work is by no means superior to that to be
found in the home market. Some years ago that very successful play of
"The Two Orphans" was purchased by an American from its French author
for a mere song. Now, Sardou gets $10,000 for a play like "Odette,"
which has so far, I believe, failed to bring that amount back to Mr.
French, the purchaser. Samuel Colville paid Messrs. Pettitt & Merritt,
of London, an enormous sum for the melodrama of "The World," which,
however, made $75,000 for him. Messrs. Brooks & Dickson bought "Romany
Rye," an untried play, from Sims, for America, paying him $10,000 cash;
Colville paid a high price for "Taken from Life," and D'Oyley Carte
planks down $12,000 to Mr. Sims for a drama, before a line of it is
written, and sells the American right to Lester Wallack on the same
terms.

All the American actors, actresses and managers nowadays want foreign
plays and are willing to pay exorbitant prices for everything that
is offered. On the other hand it is the exception when an American
playwright does well, or indeed when his work is accepted at all. Some
few late successes this side of the water have set all the ambitious
young men of play-writing proclivities to work. One day it will be
announced that John McCullough has bought a tragedy from a rising
journalist, and next day all the journalists will be writing plays for
him. So, too, with Raymond, and Mary Anderson, and a score of others.
But, few writers among journalists succeed in dramatic work. Robert
G. Morris, of the New York _Telegram_, is among the latest successes
with his "Old Shipmates," and probably one of the greatest is Bartley
Campbell, who sprang into fame in a night, after plodding patiently and
poorly paid for years. Fred. Marsden, who writes Lotta's plays, is also
among the fortunate, having, according to report, during his career
made something like $70,000.

Bartley Campbell may be taken as an excellent example of the manner
in which the American dramatist works, and the almost despairing
circumstances attending his long and weary chase of fortune. He is a
man with a history. That history he made himself. From an office boy he
has risen to a place of honor. Not that the position of office boy is
dishonorable, but very few who begin life in that sphere ever attain
as high a place as that now enjoyed by the greatest of our American
dramatists. He was born at Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, some thirty-seven
years ago, and as soon as he graduated from the lap of infancy he
entered a lawyer's office with the view of studying for the bar. But
the reading of law he soon discovered was not at all to his liking,
and he was declared an unpromising student, being too poetic and
sentimental. His next move was to the office of the Pittsburg _Leader_,
where he himself says he received the munificent salary of $5 a week
for the hardest work he has ever done. Here is another illustration
of the old saying, that when you have failed at everything else make
up your mind to adopt the profession of actor or journalist. Young
Campbell chose the latter. He preferred the stationary drudgery of a
newspaper Bohemian's existence to the wandering chance-life of the
equally hard worked, and, at that time, poorly paid actor. By diligence
and close application to study he rose rapidly, and soon was entrusted
with the responsible position of dramatic critic. He must have been
a good one. It is said that he was a faithful critic; so faithful,
indeed, as to warrant the chastisement of a bad actor, and endanger the
publication of the paper with libel suits. He deserted the _Leader_ and
commenced publishing the _Mail_, and it is here, while editing this
journal, that he first attempted play-writing. His early effort was the
sensational drama called "Through the Fire," brought out in 1871; then
followed the comedy, "Peril," produced in 1872; the third was, "Fate,"
which was subsequently purchased by Miss Carlotta Leclerq, who played
it with much success for several years; then followed, "Risks," now the
property of John T. Raymond, and, in swift succession, the mill ground
out "The Virginian," "On the Rhine," "Gran Uale," "The Big Bonanza,"
which, it will be remembered, was one of the successes of 1875. "A
Heroine in Rags," "How Women Love" (later known as "The Heart of the
Sierras," and still later as "The Vigilantes"), "Clio," "Fairfax,"
"My Partner," and lastly, "The Galley Slave." It was the success of
"My Partner" that brought about the turning-point in Mr. Campbell's
fortune. That he had suffered the severity of want, he confesses
himself in a neat little Christmas story told by him to a newspaper
correspondent, who met him at the door of Haverly's Theatre, New York,
one night during the run of "The Galley Slave" in the metropolis. His
tall figure, his slouch hat, rather dishevelled hair, twelve-cornered
moustache, Prince Albert coat and disordered necktie looked just as
they did when I first saw their owner some years ago, when his luck was
away down. The statement of the night's receipts was brought him while
we stood there, and his share was a few dollars more than six hundred.

"House not as good as last night," he said, "within a couple of
dollars. Fact is, the business, although good, has not been better than
it might be."

"Why, Bartley, you don't quarrel about a couple of dollars, now you are
in the height of success? What is your income from plays, anyway?"

"I don't growl about a few dollars; but now is the time--see? When you
can growl about them do it. Well, I'm getting on an average $1,500 a
week now."

"You'll soon be rich, Bartley."

"Well, I am so accustomed to bad luck, perhaps I may meet some--see?"

Bartley Campbell always says "see" in an interrogative way without
much or any desire for an answer. In a rambling conversation about his
varied career that followed, the drift of the talk got Christmas and
poverty mixed, and Bartley told this story of his early struggles: "I
had just gone to New Orleans with my wife, arriving there just when a
newspaper had suspended, and twelve writers were, like myself, seeking
journalistic work--only, unlike myself, they had acquaintances and
friends; I neither; nor money, except five cents--see? The row was
a hard one. After various 'shifts'--one of which was starting the
_Southern Magazine_, which was brought out--we found ourselves, just
before Christmas time, with nothing of importance except a grocery
bill--see? I wrote a poem about Eddystone Light, and sent it to the
_Nineteenth Century_, then published in Charleston, S. C., by Felix
de Fontaine & Co. It was the small beginning of which the present
_Nineteenth Century_ is the great result--see?"

"Well, I marked on the MS.--price $15. Commercial poetry--see? We
confidently expected that money before Christmas. Why, we took it as
a matter of course that the money must come. If it didn't--well, that
was a view of things that we couldn't take for a moment--see? Well,
the day before Christmas came, but that money did not. I visited the
post-office again and again that day, but no letter. The situation was
gloomy then, and in the evening I said to my wife, 'I guess I'll have
to go to the grocery, anyway.' 'I wouldn't go, Bart,' she said; 'I am
afraid he'll say something about the account.' 'I can't help it--I am
going, anyhow,' I answered, and grabbed the basket and rushed out, for
fear that my wife's fears would deter me from going at all--see? He
didn't say anything about the account, and I ordered sparingly. When he
got the things all in the basket, he slipped in with them a bottle of
nice liquor, and he said: 'Now, Mr. Campbell, this is Christmas Eve.'
I went home, and I drank some of the liquor, and when we went to bed
things looked a little brighter. I got up in the morning, and they were
gloomy again--see? I started down to the post-office, my wife saying
it was a fruitless errand, and got there just before the Christmas
rule of closing at 10 A. M. shut down the delivery window. The clerk
ran through every letter, and when he had got to the last one, and as
I half turned to leave, he threw me down a letter which bore the date
mark 'Charleston.' I opened it, and there was a check for $15. My legs
couldn't carry me home fast enough. I got there, and my wife met me,
her face all aglow. 'Well, Bart,' she said. 'Well,' I said, and I felt
that she had heard the news--that some one had told her my check had
come, for to me it was the biggest piece of news ever was, and that it
was common talk was perfectly natural. 'Bartley, I have got $10,' she
cried. 'And I have got $15,' I yelled; and she, not noticing it, went
on, 'I sold the war book about women, that nobody would buy before, to
some people who wanted it. Now, don't be extravagant, Bartley, please.'
We had a bottle of champagne that day, and presently I got the position
of official reporter of the Legislature at $16 a week; but Christmas
time never comes that I do not wonder if I will have as merry and
happy a day as the one we celebrated in New Orleans just after the war."

In view of what has been said about the almost merciless treatment
the American dramatist, as a general rule, receives from the American
theatrical manager, it may be well to add here the statement
made lately by Mr. William Seymour, stage manager of the Madison
Square Theatre, New York. He exhibited to a visitor a drawerful of
manuscripts, and said, although he had read and rejected one hundred
and fifty plays within nine months, he still had almost as many more
left. As a usual thing the plays offered were, he claimed, weak
imitations of "Hazel Kirke" and kindred plays, or wretched translations
from the German or French. One or two were very original attempts.
Picking up a heavy manuscript bound with blue ribbon, and looking very
like a young girl's graduating essay or poem, Mr. Seymour said: Here
is a play in seven acts, which opens in America at some large seaport
town, the author isn't particular where, and an embarkation scene ends
the first act. In the second the ship has made its way in toward the
Arctic regions and is wrecked by an iceberg. The hero bravely cuts down
a spar, lashes himself to it and jumps overboard. In the third act he
is discovered upon an iceberg beyond the Arctic circle, starving and
almost dead, while in the distance a battle is in progress between a
pirate ship and Chinese junk. The Chinamen are destroyed, and in the
fourth act the hero is rescued from the iceberg. A marine encounter
between Chinamen and pirates in the Arctic Ocean is bad enough, but
even this is outdone in the fifth act, where the hero is discovered
upon a tropical island with his feet frostbitten. The remaining two
acts are used to get him back to America, which is done in full
accordance with the rest of the play. I have many others just as bad.
Here is one with fifty-two speaking characters, and here is another
in four acts, which would require but twenty-nine minutes to play
the whole thing through. But strange and curious as the plays are, I
think that the letters I receive from the authors are still greater
curiosities. Occasionally some of them are modest enough to admit the
possibility of failure, but as a general thing they do not hesitate
to dwell upon the beauties of their productions and the certainties
of success. Moreover, they are always ready to make terms and some
of their offers are very amusing. Here is one that will serve as a
sample:--

  "DEAR SIR: The undersigned is the Author of a new three act Drama
  it is romantic, Dramatic and Scenic, and has a good plot. The Story
  is interesting. The dialogue is bright and Witty, the unities of
  the plot are preserved, and the Situations Are Picturesque and
  effective. I have had it nicely copied.

  "And wish to sell it to you if you wish to become the Proprietor of
  my play.

  "Terms, I will sell you My copyright and Manuscript, And Give you
  100 Printed copies, for the use of actors, for $1000 dols.

  "The name of My Play is

    "Charles Ryan.

  "The scenes are in Italy, Time 1868.

    "Yours, Very Respectfully, etc., etc., etc.,
    "---- ---- ----
    "Author.

  "P. S.--I inclose my card, I don't be at Home every day, but am at
  home nearly every evening bet. 8 and 10 o'clock.

  "(I did not have my Play Printed yet.)"




CHAPTER XIX.

"MASHERS" AND "MASHING."


[Illustration: A BOWERY "MASHER."]

The masher is a remarkable creature. He hovers everywhere, from the
market-place to the meeting-house and from the promenade to the
theatre. He is many-phased and many-faced, and may come from the slums
or be the son of a first-class preacher of the Gospel. The class has
been termed gunaikophagists by some fellow reckless alike of the
feelings of philologists and of the jaws of the rising generation,
who says it means woman-eaters, but may be less poly-syllabically
styled corner loafers and miserable scoundrels, who live on the curbs
and in some instances hug the wall--have a pardonable affection,
considering that they part their hair in the middle, for malacca,
bamboo, and rubber sticks--and last, but not least, some indulge a
precocious vanity by planting eye-glasses across their noses. These
are, par excellence, the cane-and-eyeglass friends, and they remind
one of nothing else in the world than a sickly looking cross between
a saw-buck and a half-resuscitated dried herring. The masher's sole
ambition, is to win hearts, which he hopes to do by staring ladies
out of countenance, and which he often does in a most flagrant and
audacious manner. There are young and old of this class, and they
are of all grades, from the young man who negotiates with you over a
counter for a paper of pins or a dozen shoestrings, up to his employer,
and from that up the monetary scale to the man who wholesales the
employer the pins which the "mashing" salesman disposes of a nickle's
worth at a time. Sandwiched between these at proper, or rather
improper, intervals are the "What d'ye soy?" crowd, the "toughs"
wearing high felt hats turned up with care before and behind, and,
without exception, sporting the inevitable tight jeans breeches. Their
influence extends only to a certain class--to the concert and variety
dives--and it is unfortunate to the poor girls, outside of this class,
who fall a prey to these ruthless "mashers."

[Illustration: LADY MACBETH.

    LADY MACBETH:--"Infirm of purpose!
      Give me the daggers; the sleeping, and the dead
      Are but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood
      That fears a painted devil."

                _Macbeth, Act II., Scene 2._
]

The theatre appears to possess loadstone qualities for the masher;
it is as attractive to them as the flame of the candle is for the
moth or the flower for the bee. I have already in a preceding chapter
said a great deal about the "mashing" that is done in the audience by
both male and female exponents of the disreputable art. I shall now
confine myself to the "mashers" in the profession and those who try
to "mash" the profession. Some young gentlemen with more money than
brains imagine that actresses have nothing else to do but receive
attentions from the opposite sex, and that there is no "wall of China"
around the virtue of any woman on the stage. They therefore not only
make bold to talk freely about actresses, but are valiant enough to
try to ensnare them by letters abounding in hyperbole and odorescent
of cologne-besprent idiocy. The variety actress is the ideal prize
of this class, and they are in their greatest glory when within the
frolicsome precincts of the wine-room. I have seen many a young man
whose hair was parted in the middle crow lustily over the successful
capture of a ballet girl, when he himself had been the capture. These
girls know what their charms are worth and hold them at that price,
when they see a victim well dressed and with an apparently healthy
pocket-book. They, in expressive but slangy language, lay for him.
They are not foolish enough to invite him to their side; they allow
him to make an apparent conquest which guarantees them all the greater
gain. The young gentleman of whom I speak was lured in this way; and
as she sat with well-rounded limbs pulsating through silken tights
and gracefully thrown upon an opposite chair, and he leant over her
whispering soft words and looking fondly upon her painted face, while
they clinked champagne glasses, she with downcast eyes was playing
innocence, but all the while congratulating herself upon the arch
manner in which she had won him.

Just as bad as the female "masher" on the stage is the female "masher"
who has no claims on the profession. The latter has studied her art
perfectly, that it may assist her in throwing her net about the
unsophisticated. Females of this class in the East make it their
business to frequent the matinees, where with the assistance of the
ushers, whom they remunerate handsomely for their co-operation, they
gather a granger in, and within twelve hours or so send him home
whining at his idiocy in not having resisted the temptation that left
him penniless. The gay sirens who are in this business generally go
in pairs. The usher locates them next to their victim, and once there
they've got him for all the cash he took out of the family sock
before leaving Jerusha and his eight little ones.

[Illustration: WORKING A "GREENY" AT A MATINEE.]

The blonde beauties of the leg drama, or the fair burlesquers, as some
people call them, are considered legitimate prey by the "mashing"
fraternity. Indeed it is often a case of diamond cut diamond, for the
burlesquers are themselves notoriously liberal in making acquaintances,
and the majority of them will accept a midnight drive or a morning
supper as readily as they do the friendship of the gentleman who
tenders them. The bewildering array of limbs and shapely forms, the
golden hair and apparently fresh and handsome faces set the young
swells wild, and the rush for orchestra chairs down front where a quiet
flirtation can be carried on shows the great extent of rivalry that
exists among their number. Any number of scented notes on rose-tinted
paper find their way through the stage-door into the hands of the giddy
throng behind the scenes, and as they glance through it they laugh
at the foolishness of the writer but agree to "work him" to the full
extent of his wealth. The comedian who knows that the girls have got
"another sucker on a string" comes up and wants to see the last "letter
from home." He gives the girls a funny bit of advice about retaining
their innocence if they would be happy, but adds that if there is
anything in the fellow, to "catch on" at once--which of course the
girls have already made up their minds to do.

[Illustration: FROM ONE OF THE "MASHED."]

A veteran in the business says: "Actresses have the most marked talents
for wheedling the gilded youth out of money. Such 'guys' and 'gillies'
fancy that if they are known as the patrons and friends of stage
stars all the world is staring at them and envying their conquests.
Poor idiots, their entire conquest consists in that they make over
their own common sense! The silly ninny rejoicing in the showy and
artful woman's favors counts himself a privileged mortal, but his
chief privilege in regard to a cunning, scheming stage siren is the
privilege of paying her bills. Of the men with money she makes fools.
When she scents a full pocket-book she runs it low. Her affection, so
far as she has any to bestow, is probably lavished on a big animal of
a loafer from whom she gets no money, and who, perhaps, beats her and
makes her support him. It is a paradox of feminine nature that the
women who are unscrupulous and heartless in wheedling men of money seem
so lavishly free in bestowing favors and bounty on loaferish lovers,
from whom they can make nothing. An actress is psychically a study,
always curious and unaccountable, however talented."

Some comic opera choruses, particularly those of the limb-exhibiting
kind, have attained to almost equal notoriety with the burlesquers in
the "mashing" line. The fact of the matter is that in the branches
of the profession where women are employed, not for their artistic
qualities, but on account of the plumpness of their limbs and the
agreeableness of their entire figure to the male eye, there is so much
laxness and so much that is altogether bad, that the ladies of the
higher walks of the profession do not always escape, and the "masher,"
who is always going around seeking what fair females he may devour,
frequently dares to approach some of the best women in the profession.
Here is a specimen of the work of one of this class; it is a letter
received by one of the best and handsomest little ladies the stage ever
saw, and whose retirement from the boards was really a great loss to
the dramatic art:--

    EXCHANGE HOTEL,
    MONTGOMERY, ALA., ----, 187-.

  I know I am violating the cold conventionalities of life by
  addressing you, but if it angers you, the friendly fire which
  blazes before you will prove a suitable altar upon which you can
  sacrifice my homage. I never saw you before to-night, but to see
  you is to be dazed--glamoured with a glare. May I dare to hope that
  I shall ever stand abashed in your presence, waiting your sweet
  will to raise my eyes to your dear face in adoration? Tell me that
  I may follow you through all the world upon my bended knees, to
  find at last your favor, that I may live in hope upon the memory of
  your smile, and know that at the last you will be content to let me
  kneel at your feet and find reward in that alone. Oh, dear heart,
  let me dream of you until you awaken.

    Yours, devoted,
    F. H. M.

Can anybody imagine a more glowing and positive piece of idiocy? This
would-be "masher" should be taken out in the woods and brained with a
five-syllable adjective that he would not be able to identify in the
next world. Many actresses refuse to receive letters that are sent to
them from strange admirers. Mary Anderson never sees such a letter,
although bushels of them are sent to her. And she is only one of
hundreds who adopt the policy of rejecting strange letters at sight.
Frequently married ladies in the profession are made targets of by the
letter-writing brigade of mashers, and more than one head has been
artistically mutilated as a return for the "masher's" impertinent pains.

A New York correspondent writes as follows about a pretty little
actress and singer, who while fulfilling an engagement at the Bijou
Opera House, New York, last summer, broke the hearts of all the
"swells" and "bloods" of the metropolis, and had the house filled
nightly with rival admirers, among whom was the melancholy son of a
Washington, D. C., judge: "Miss Lillian Russell is a beauty without
a shadow of doubt. She is about twenty-six, I believe. It is by no
means generally known that she is married, and that her husband is
an honest, hard-working, and thorough orchestra leader, to whom she
owes her present proficiency in vocal culture. He was very fond of
her, and always believed in her success. No man could have worked more
faithfully. Finally he found an opening for her on the variety stage
as a serio-comic--as the phrase goes--singer. She attracted attention
at once, and he labored vigilantly until he found a legitimate opening
in English comic opera. I believe it was 'The Snake Charmer.' She was
very glad to get out of the variety rut so soon, and expressed delight
at the admiration she excited. Then came the club-men with their swell
slang, gaudy carts and flowing money. Now she is suing her husband
for divorce. Such is life. The husband, I hear, harassed by care, and
perhaps something else, had become so nervous or inattentive that he
lost his position in the orchestra, and so the shades of prosperity
and adversity are more clearly defined than ever. Miss Russell seems
to have been under the especial care of a theatrical goddess of
sensationalism. Everything has conspired to make her name familiar. Her
escapade with one of the young men was inevitable. The only question
was which one she would select. It happened to be Howard Osborne, the
son of the wealthy banker. One night when it was time for the curtain
to rise, and the audience was getting into a white heat, the manager
came forward displaying a decided desire to swear like a pirate, and
announced that Miss Russell had suddenly and unwarrantedly run away.
The next morning Mr. Osborne, Sr., wondered where in thunder his son
was. He received a letter later, and immediately fell into a howling
rage. Shortly afterwards Mr. Howard Osborne was heard of in Chicago,
whence it was blandly stated Miss R. had gone to visit an aunt. The
young man was sent spinning over the sea to Europe, and the steamer had
just arrived when his fond parent had the exquisite pleasure of reading
at breakfast a cable in the morning papers relating a little excursion
of a certain Mr. Howard Osborne, Esq., said to be of New York, with
Miss Alice Burville, the burlesque actress, at the Ascot races. Heigho!
'Which the ways of the world is peculiar, Mrs. 'Arris, sez I.'"

A Californian, who reached the Pacific slope in '49 as a peddler, but
is now a bachelor millionaire, has been sued for breach of promise
by the walking lady of a San Francisco theatre, who seems to have
effectually succeeded in "mashing" the old man. The defendant it is
said first saw the plaintiff at a performance at the theatre where
she was engaged. He became impressed with her charms and sought an
introduction. He gained it and became an assiduous attendant upon her.
Their intimacy, the lady alleges, ended in a promise of marriage,
and she claims to possess letters in which she is addressed by those
endearing epithets good husbands apply to the spouses they love.
However that may be, the defendant showered bounties on her, both in
jewels and money, for upwards of a year. Then business called him to
his mines in Amador County. He was to be away some weeks, but returned
sooner than he had anticipated. He drove directly to the theatre
where the plaintiff was performing at the time of his arrival in
San Francisco, and got there just in time to see her walk away with
another man. That other man, moreover, was an actor with whom rumor
had associated her name more than once, though she had succeeding in
arguing suspicion in the matter away from the mind of her senile lover.
This time, however, argument failed to do the work required of it.
Detectives employed by the defendant resulted in the discovery that
his gifts and favors had only served to benefit a younger and more
fascinating man, and he literally as well as metaphorically shook the
dust of his false one's door-mat off his feet forever. Then followed
the suit, which he calls blackmail, and she, a demand for justice.

[Illustration: ADELINA PATTI'S "MASH."]

Adelina Patti is credited with a strange fascination, while in New
York, the diva having succumbed to the blandishments of a midget.
The story is that she saw a picture of the midget Dudley Foster on
exhibition at Bunnell's museum, and driving down Broadway, stopped at
Bunnell's establishment and asked George Starr, the wily and polite
manager, for the loan of the diminutive specimen of humanity. Starr
agreed and the midget was handed into her carriage. "Here is a pretty
toy," gushed the prima donna, covering the little creature with kisses.
She took him to her hotel and passed an entire afternoon singing to him
and chatting. How Nicolini took to the new crank of his singing bird
is not stated. Mr. Foster plumes himself considerably on the fact that
he has done what princes have tried in vain--cut out Nicolini--and he
boasts, too, that the prima donna before she would let him go made him
promise to call on her the following week.

[Illustration: J. H. HAVERLY.]

Actors have their "mashes" too, the same as actresses, and the
gentlemen who own flexible voices, and flourish them through all the
glorious variations of operatic music, seem to be most successful in
captivating the fair and susceptible sex. "It is hard to understand why
it is," says a Chicago newspaper, "but somehow, while girls recognize
the powder and paint, the blonde wigs and penciled brows of a prima
donna as so much make-up, they refuse to analyze the charms of a tenor,
and his grease, paint, luxuriant locks, and graceful moustache are
admired as his very own. A case in point was that of a young lady whose
father is well known on the Chicago Stock Exchange. She was violently
smitten with Campanini, and used to send him no end of beautifully
written missives, and every night a bouquet of red roses. The letters
especially attracted the attention of the tenor because they were
written in smoothly flowing Italian, and evidently by some one who was
more romantic than fast or wild. There was little trouble in finding
out the fair correspondent, and Mme. Campanini, who has a good and
lovely soul, sent a note to the young lady and asked her to call. It
is needless to say the latter's delightful delusions were quickly
dispelled before the domestic life of the silver-toned tenor and the
kindly advice of his good wife.

The extent to which these serio-comic love affairs are carried on is
enormous, and sometimes the parties show an amusing ingenuity in their
correspondence. Del Puente once went nearly wild with ungratified
curiosity through the pranks of a mischievous school girl, who was
perpetually sending him love letters, in which she declared she never
missed a single night when he sung, and that when he left New York
on his tour with Her Majesty's Company she should follow him and be
present at every performance. Sure enough, in every city where he
sang he received a pretty note of congratulation, with the usual
information that the writer--dressed, as usual, in black--was present.
Of course, there were always a number of young and pretty women in this
sombre hue, but which was his correspondent Del Puente never could
decide. The letters were always post-marked with the name of the city
he happened to be in, and finally he became really nervous with the
idea of an unknown woman following him in this shadowy fashion. His
curiosity was not destined to be satisfied until long afterward, when
he found that the fair unknown, cleverly following the published route,
would send a stamped but undirected letter to the postmaster of the
city he happened to be in, with a request that he would ascertain the
singer's address and forward it. As long as the letter was stamped this
was sure to be done, and the tenor never failed to receive the missive.

A case of basso-infatuation was that of a daughter of an ex-Senator,
still prominent in Washington circles, who used to spend all her
pin-money in buying presents and baskets of flowers, which she sent
to Conley. In some mysterious way her father received a hint of it,
and the young lady was sent to the Georgetown convent, where she was
educated for a couple of years by way of punishment. She probably did
not know that Conley was married. Poor fellow, he was drowned last
summer.

Castle, though neither so young nor so charming as he once was, still
receives loads of gushing epistles, which Mrs. Castle demurely twists
into cigar lighters; and Brignoli says, "I haf teached misself ze
Inglis language with these liddle letters."

In Chicago there resides a wealthy and charming young married lady who
entertains handsomely, and is well known in society, but who distracts
her elderly husband by a mania for making the acquaintance of every
new male singer of note, and entertaining him with the greatest
elegance and expense. Of course a majority of these affairs are entered
into either in the spirit of romance or mischief, but in either
case it is apt to result disastrously, and the world has a cruelly
uncomfortably way of stamping them with another and harsher name.

Having noticed that there was a stain on the lips of the portrait of
Campanini the tenor, hanging in the lobby of the Academy of Music, New
York, a visitor called an attendant's attention to it and advised him
to wipe it off. "Why, bless you," said the attendant, "we do so every
day. That's where the girls kiss it. That picture makes as many mashes
as Campy himself, and if he was kissed half as often his lips would be
quite worn away. Lord what fools women are, to be sure!" The visitor
waited long enough to see a well-dressed and handsome young lady
approach and kiss the picture. At least he says he saw it.

[Illustration: A MONKEY SPOILING A "MASH."]

There is also a humorous side to this "mashing" business. Men and
boys who run after actresses generally get themselves into trouble,
particularly is this the case with old men--men old enough to be
thinking of the designs for their tombstones instead of running
around variety theatres hugging girls and lavishing champagne and
beer upon them. An old sinner of this stamp got into trouble in a New
York theatre one day. He made himself conspicuous and obnoxious at a
rehearsal by stumbling over the stage and getting in everybody's way.
The supes cursed him and the stage carpenter called down anathemas on
his aged head, but the old fellow was indifferent, for he was basking
in the smiles of a well-known soubrette and was happy. Finally he
posed in the centre of the stage just as an "interior" was to be
set. The scene shifters saw he was in a good position to be squeezed,
and they quietly shoved the scenes together. The lover, intent on his
inamorata, discovered his predicament only when caught, but the scene
shifters were deaf to his cries, and he was held a prisoner. He was
only released on swearing never again to poke his nose inside the
stage-door, and furnishing enough to treat the boys. When at last he
was free, he made hasty tracks for the exit, and was heard to mutter as
he went out, he'd be d--d if he wanted to be squeezed again, even by
his charming soubrette.

The bald-headed men, though, get it worse than anybody else, and
particularly so when their bald heads are hidden under wigs. A monkey
had a part to play in a piece running at one of the metropolitan
variety theatres. There was a pretty burlesque actress playing there
at the same time and she had a host of admirers with more money than
brains. Among the number was an addle-pated old rascal, who preferred
the society of the "artiste" to that of his aged wife, who had lost
the charms which enraptured his fancy when he led her years ago as
a blushing bride to the altar. One evening the fellow bribed the
door-keeper at the stage entrance to admit him to that realm of dirt,
paint, and faded tinsel "behind the scenes," and he stationed himself
in the wings in order to welcome his charmer when she retired amid the
plaudits of the audience. But alas, the "best laid plans of mice and
men gang aft aglee." The monkey espied him, and at once fell in love
with the glossy wig which covered the bald head. Swinging itself down
from the flies the monkey made a swoop with its long arm and the masher
was scalped. He cried lustily, but the monkey made off with its trophy
and the masher sloped with a handkerchief tied over his head.

[Illustration: AMBLELEG.

_See_ p. 296.]

Almost similar was the fate of a bewigged Parisian who was loafing and
"mashing" behind the scenes of the Grand Opera. A dancer stood in the
wings listening to the prattle of a silly old man. He was protesting
heartily his love for the young lady, and was on the point of kissing
her hand, when, as he stooped down, she snatched his wig from his head.
At that moment she had to appear on the stage, and did so amid laughter
and applause; for she carried with her the old fellow's scalp as if by
way of trophy. The applause was less loud, but much more humorous on
the stage; for the gay old lover and his bald head had to stand a deal
of quizzing from those who, like himself, were in the wings waiting for
their "little dears" to return.

Since the establishment of garden theatres for the summer months, in
nearly all the large cities of the Union, the "masher" finds ample
field for the kind of sport he indulges in. A girl in red tights
created a great commotion among the swell mashers who frequented
Uhrig's Cave, St. Louis, during the summer of 1881, and in that
connection there could have been revelations that would carry grief
into a few homes and bring disgrace upon not young and irresponsible
men, but upon prominent citizens who were foolish enough to be
fascinated by the crimson symmetricals. The fraternity have a peculiar
way of working a summer garden. The phalanx of mashers begin operations
early in the evening. They get to the garden before the lamps are lit,
and dust some of the chairs with their coat-tails and pantaloons. They
watch the singers as they enter and endeavor to catch some suggestion
from them that a mash has been effected. Now and then a soft,
gazelle-like glance or a sweet, girlish simper, like the smile on a
sick monkey's under lip, gives a token of slight recognition, and then
the masher's heart and eye are full of gladness. When the curtain is
rung up and the glare turned on, the "mashers" move in a body towards
the front of the stage and dust some more of the chairs. Then they fix
their eyes like so many lances upon the girls and again attempt to
impale hearts. After the performance they move in a double line to the
side aisle of the garden, and, opening ranks, wait for the actresses
to come out. When the actresses do come out they are obliged to run a
gauntlet that would put any but a cast-iron woman with a heavy veil
on to the reddest blush. Sometimes a "masher" accomplishes his aim in
life and captures a girl, but it is seldom. The professional poser
has too wide a reputation and his figure is as clear a "give-away"
as the cigar-sign Indian's, so that a reputable young lady who cares
anything about continuing to be respected and esteemed by her friends
is obdurate to the glances, the moustache, the smiles, the white hat,
light pantaloons, bamboo canes, and cheap button-hole bouquets--

    The Saturday matinee young man,
    The five-cent-cigar young man,
    The sweetly susceptible, somewhat disrep'table,
    Gaze-and-admire-me young man.

And so it goes on every night. Music and "mashing" so charmingly
dovetail themselves to the entertainment that there is as much
amusement in looking up one as in listening to the other.




CHAPTER XX.

THE MAIDEN AND THE TENOR.


Mr. Troubadour Ambleleg was a tenor. He waved his light voice for a
light salary in the chorus of an unexpensive opera company that made
the summer months of 1881 and the opera air of the West End of St.
Louis melodious to a sometimes quite harassing degree. His soul was as
full of art as his throat was of music. He doted upon the beautiful
wherever he came in contact with it, and frequently, when he heard of
beauty lying around in languid looseness in any direction, he went
out of his way to find it. It was in this manner he became acquainted
with Miss Silica Justaytine. She was the belle of an upperly upper
circle, a glowing, brown-eyed maiden, with sun-kissed hair, and the
sweetest smiles that ever played in Polar-light style over the ruffs
and ruchings of an expensive toilet. Indeed, an aurora borealis of
glinting good nature shone upon the horizon of her lips, and a single
glance of her eye was worth more to a man in love than the advent of a
sprinkling cart to a traveller perishing of thirst on a dry and burning
desert. When Mr. Ambleleg saw Miss Justaytine, that pink of beauty and
perfection of belleship, gracing a front bench, where the susceptible
tenor was nightly airing his voice at a salary of ten dollars a week,
their eyes met and their loves at once intertwined. Like Tecetl,
the daughter of Montezuma, who found in the yellow-haired warrior,
Alvarado, the lover she had dreamt of long before the prow of the
"fair god's" vessel touched the shores of Mexico, the super-æsthetical
maiden of my story saw in the chorus singer the affinity for which
she had long looked and sighed. Mr. Ambleleg, too, at once became
aware that in Miss Justaytine he had met his fate. They smiled, and
sighed, and ogled, and encouraged each other across the foot-lights.
The chorus singer forgot all the other maiden beauty that flourished
under the foliage, and there were crushed and trampled hearts lying in
the chasm across which Ambleleg and Miss Justaytine exchanged their
affections. But Ambleleg did not mind it. He had learned that Miss
Justaytine was the queen of her circle, and he determined to share her
crown with her. Now, Ambleleg was not wealthy; neither was he rich in
prepossessing features. His teeth were freckled, his mouth was big,
his forehead small, his eyes expressionless, his hair of a buttery
yellow, his moustache vapid, his shirt calico, and usually required
to do long service without washing, while his general appearance was
not extravagantly pleasant, and certainly not over-abundant in that
grace and ease for which pretty girls have, at all times, a fondness.
Therefore, it was surprising that Miss Silica Justaytine fell in love
with the chorus-singing tenor. But she did so, and, it seems, fell so
deeply into admiration of himself and his voice, that she could not
have done better had she made the start, in falling, from the top of a
seven-story house. When love is once kindled in the glow of a pair of
admiring eyes, look out for a conflagration in the neighborhood of the
pericardium. Night after night, as the moon washed the tree tops with
waves of silver, and the leaves rustled their whispers to each other,
Miss Silica Justaytine sat in the front row, either joining with the
chorus of æsthetic maidens in "Patience" in singing to her own ideal
_Bunthorne_,--

    Turn, oh turn in this direction,
      Shed, oh shed a gentle smile;
    With a glance of sad perfection
      My poor fainting heart beguile!
    On such eyes as maidens cherish
      Let thy fond adorer gaze,
    Or incontinently perish
      In their all-consuming rays.

Or following _Bettina_ through the mazes of the "Mascotte" gobble song,
while she had a _Pippo_ of her own in mind all the time. Ambleleg
noticed this growing affection, and sang all the louder, and all
the wilder, to the great endangerment of the performances. At last
Miss Silica Justaytine left him a token of her love--a soft, white
rose, which she kissed and placed in her chair as she departed one
evening. Ambleleg cleared the stage at a bound, secured the creamy
flower, pressed it to his lips and over his calico shirt bosom, after
which he carefully stowed it away in a pocket-book with his wash and
board-bills. The following day Miss Silica Justaytine was toying
with a $10,000 necklace in the bay window of her palatial residence
on Pinafore Avenue, when the postman handed her a letter in a yellow
envelope. It was from Ambleleg. She blushed as she looked at it, then
opened and read it, smiled and floated gracefully up to an escritoire,
where she indited a charming little note on pink monogram paper with
heavy gold edges, and placed it in one of the nattiest and most
scrumptious envelopes you ever saw. Ambleleg read that note that very
night to a group of wide-eyed and open-mouthed chorus singers. It
invited him to call on Miss Justaytine the next day. The call was made.
Miss Silica Justaytine received Ambleleg at the front door, and led him
to the magnificent parlor as graciously as if he were a prince.

"My _Pippo_!" she cried, as she flung her arms around his neck, and
almost knocked over the piano stool.

"My _Bettina_!" sighed the tenor, as he pressed her to his glowing
bosom.

After the first agony of meeting they sat down and told the stories of
their love. Cruel fate had dealt harshly with both. One was already
engaged to be married; the other would not begin to have a ghost of a
show at monogamy if wives were to be had at ten cents a dozen. Miss
Justaytine was betrothed to Mr. Praymore, a young man who had hopes
of coming into a fortune some day or other, providing he survived the
parent who accumulated it. Mr. Ambleleg was impecunious; still she said
she could scrape up enough to buy him a suit of clothes and a box of
tooth-powder, and then they might fly together as far as East St. Louis
anyhow. Miss Justaytine was to become a wandering minstrel's bride. She
took the $5,000 diamond engagement ring Mr. Praymore had given her,
from her finger, and put on a $2 imitation amethyst that the chorus
singer gave her. What simple, pure, and unselfish love.

But the course of true love is as rough as the rocky roads in Dublin.
Not content with wandering under his inamorata's window every night
wasting his breath in whistling Sullivan's music to pieces, while
_Bettina_ opened the shutters of the third-story window and softly
sang,--

    For I mi-hy turkey's love,

to which _Pippo_ melodiously responded,--

    And I my shee-eep love.

After which there was a mixture of "gobble, gobble, gobble," and
"ba-a-a-ahs." Not content with this innocent and artistic way of
amusing himself while he kept people awake for blocks around, Ambleleg
very indiscreetly boasted of his success, and exhibited Miss Silica
Justaytine's notes and photographs to indiscriminate crowds. One day
he met Mr. Praymore and a prize-fighting brother of Miss Justaytine
in the street. This brother had done yoeman's service in the 24-foot
ring, and required but slight provocation to disturb the claret in a
nose so inviting as that which decorated the middle of Mr. Ambleleg's
face. By the free use of whiskey punches these young men finally
inveigled Ambleleg into a deep and dark cellar where they proceeded to
touch him up with fists and feet that he might not be able to identify
himself again. After materially spoiling his appearance, they made
themselves presents of the photographs and letters which they found
in his possession, gave him a few parting touches, and then went away
to prepare an official statement of their side of the case. Ambleleg
now had no more use for the Justaytine mansion, or the Justaytine
beauty, so he made up his mind to heal his heart and his bruises with
a $10,000 balm. For this purpose he went into court. Miss Silica had
winged herself away to the Rosebud Sulphur Springs, and was not aware
of the fame herself and her chorus singer were achieving at home.
Ambleleg hired him two lawyers to plead his cause, and then there was a
great uproar all over the country. The papers busied themselves about
the matter very much, and impudently published all the details that
they could get hold of. Quite natural it was that when Miss Silica
Justaytine arrived at the Rosebud Sulphur Springs, the fashionable and
celebrated beauties there should be so jealous of her triumph over a
chorus singer, that they were sparing of their attentions and cutting
in their remarks. Some of the same envious ones had had food for
gossip a season or two before over Miss Silica Justaytine's capture
of a $15,000,000 ex-Presidential candidate. That a woman should range
all the way from a Presidential candidate to a chorus singer, was
unusual and interesting. So unpleasant did the gossiping souls at
Rosebud Sulphur Springs make it for Miss Silica Justaytine, that she
hastened back to the more congenial atmosphere of her home on Pinafore
Avenue. In the meantime, her prize-fighting brother and Mr. Praymore
had, with the same courage that impelled them to decoy Mr. Ambleleg
into a cellar, and beat him, and draw a Gatling gun on him, fallen
down on their knees before Miss Silica Justaytine and asked her to
plead their cause. She consented, and by a swift-footed courier sent
Ambleleg a message accompanied by the talismanic words, "_Pippo_" and
"Amethyst." He stopped smoking a five-cent cigar and rushed out to the
Justaytine mansion like a fire-engine pursued by an insurance man. His
lawyer seized his coat-tail and followed, the two arriving there out of
breath, the one bent on money, the other called by the sweet voice of
love.

"Oh, _Pippo_!"

"Oh, _Bettina_!"

This was the salutation that fell from the two lovers as their eyes
melted into each other.

"_Pippo_, you have sued my prize-fighting brother and my ostensible
lover for $10,000. They are short of cash just now and cannot
conveniently pay. Please cut down the amount just a little bit, dear
_Pippo_. For the sake of this amethyst (shows him the ring) I beg of
you cut it down," said she.

"I'll cut it down, _Bettina_," he said, "but I do it only for your
sweet dear sake."

"How much?" she asked.

"All I want," he answered, "is enough to buy a silver watch, a new
suit of clothes, pay my board and wash bill, get me three cigars for
ten cents, and take me home to my mother. I think I can get along with
$500."

"Is that all?" the charming and delighted creature inquired.

"Not quite all," put in Ambleleg; "the two lawyers I have hired cannot
be assuaged with less than $500. We three--that is, the two lawyers and
myself--want $500 apiece. Thus you see I cut the $10,000 down $8,500,"
and he jammed his thumbs into the arm-holes of his vest and assumed the
attitude of a man who could lose that amount in a game of poker every
day in the week and never feel the loss.

"Oh, _Pippo_, you are so good to reduce so liberally," said Miss
Justaytine, and she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him in a
wild and irresponsible way.

Thus the interview ended, and as Ambleleg ambled down the front steps
Miss Silica Justaytine sat down at her piano, ecstatically thrummed it
and enthusiastically sang:--

    A feather-headed young man,
    A goosey-goosey young man,
    An utterly looney, much too-sooney,
    Swallow-the-bait young man.

The lawyers subsequently fixed the matter up among themselves, and
Ambleleg, after getting a few dollars and a new pair of heavy-soled
shoes, struck out nobly for the home of his mother. When last heard
from he still had a good chorus voice and was helping to fill in the
intervals of comic opera with his low and gentle howl.

       *       *       *       *       *




CHAPTER XXI.

FISHING FOR FREE PUFFS.


The merchant who has anything to dispose of advertises it, and the most
successful men in any line of business are those who are most liberal
in the use of printers' ink. The theatrical fraternity thoroughly
understand this, and their first and foremost idea in everything they
do is to get themselves before the public, and, if possible, keep
themselves there. Their appreciation of the value of a puff or notice
is beautifully set forth in the following funny paragraph which I found
floating around in the newspapers:--

"A Leadville paper stated that a well-known actress who visited that
city went to a saloon after a performance, played poker, got drunk,
licked the bartender, and cleaned out the crowd. Of course she was
very indignant and was going to cowhide the editor, when the amazed
journalist explained to her that it was a first-class puff that would
get her an opening in society in Leadville. And then she thanked him
and gave him a dozen passes."

[Illustration: SERVING A WRIT ON FANNY DAVENPORT.]

Some actors, and some actresses, too, do not care a cent what the means
employed are or what the printed matter is, so the names are their own
and once more they are before the people. The great majority, however,
while anxious to appear in print as often and in as many columns as a
paper can spare without throwing out paying advertisements, are very
scrupulous about the character of the statements credited to them or
actions spoken of, while all affect to be utterly independent of the
press and to have no regard whatever for the good it can do them, or
the harm either. If they meant what they said they might be set down as
foolish; but they do not mean anything of the kind, and the fact that
day after day the most outrageous stories about professional people go
uncontroverted, is an indication that not only are they willing to have
such things published, but may have instigated them themselves.

The only kind of newspaper notice a Thespian might not court, but
which, once printed, would be looked upon philosophically as so much
printers' ink obtained for nothing--so much advertising had that wasn't
paid for--is such a one as the announcement of the attempt of a sheriff
to lasso Miss Fanny Davenport, in order that he might be able to hold
her long enough to read a writ of some sort to her.

Different actors and actresses have different ways of advertising
themselves. The interview is a favorite with some, and often the
interview is so arranged that the player can appear before the
newspaper man in some eccentric attitude that will attract more
attention than all the player could say if he talked for one hundred
years. Harry Sargent likes a reporter to see Modjeska, and as the
visitor enters he finds the Polish actress firing across the room
with a pistol at a small target, which she manages to hit every time.
Displaying diamonds is another scheme to catch the unwary newspaper
man. Sending along photographs is expected to throw an editor into
an ecstasy of liberality out of which he will come with at least a
half-column puff of the pretty creature whose counterpart presentment
has been sent to him. Diamond robberies are worth at least a column.
Falling heir to $5,000,000 or more will bring an interview that will
be worth almost as much as the legacy. In everything an actor or an
actress says and does the newspaper will find something worth printing,
and in printing it the paper does exactly what the actor or actress
wants--places him or her before the public. Mme. Janauschek gets a
slight jolt in going down the shaft of a Colorado mine, and the country
is immediately informed that she has had a narrow escape from death.
Minnie Maddern, a new star who expects to rival Lotta, is made a brevet
officer of the Continental Guards of New Orleans, and her manager feels
assured that the people of the United States would not sleep well if
they didn't hear about it within twenty-four hours, so he gets the
Associated Press to telegraph it in all directions, that at least a few
lives may be saved. A Bohemian prince presents Emma Thursby, at Prague,
with a pair of nightingales, and about ten lines of every newspaper
this side of the Atlantic are wasted in making the silly announcement.
The souvenir and flower "rackets" both carry a certain weight, and the
lithograph that fills the eye as one gazes into a shoe store window is
a glory that can never fade from the optic that has even for a second
of time dwelt upon it.

[Illustration: ERNESTI ROSSI.]

Minnie Palmer, if all reports be true, came to the front some time ago
with a new bid for a free advertisement. She entertained a Louisville
_Courier-Journal_ reporter with a display that must have made the
young man blush. "Our company has got into the chemise fever,"
exclaimed Minnie, artlessly, "and we're trying to see which can make
the prettiest one. I'll show them to you," and then, regardless of the
helpless man's blushes, she disemboweled a trunk and buried him beneath
an avalanche of snowy underwear. Their construction was minutely
explained, and then the conversation naturally led to flannels, which
Minnie confidentially remarked could not be worn by actors because of
the risk of colds when compelled to leave them off. The theme could
scarcely be pursued further than flannels, and the interview closed
with Minnie's confession that she didn't like to be hugged on the
stage in warm weather. In winter, and unencumbered by flannels, the
operation was not so distasteful. All of this may seem irrelevant, and
having very little to do with dramatic art, but it made a column for
Minnie all the same.

The Abbott Kiss, invented by John T. McEnnis, a reporter on the St.
Louis _Post-Dispatch_, but always claimed by Jimmy Morrissey, who was
her agent at the time, traveled everywhere and was printed in every
newspaper from New York to San Francisco. It had just about played
out when in 1881, during the prevalence of small-pox, Miss Abbott had
herself vaccinated on one of her lower limbs, and again the papers
advertised her. She afterwards acted in the capacity of interviewer
for the St. Louis _Globe-Democrat_, and was commissioned to get a talk
out of Patti, but spent all the time she was with the diva in kissing
and hugging her, and when she came away from her had nothing to write
about. Still Miss Abbott is a hard-working, gifted, and agreeable
little lady, and must be regarded as the best lyric prima donna America
can boast of.

Speaking about Patti: she came to the United States under foreign
management, and with all her sweetness and beauty of voice and the
greatness of her reputation, she could do nothing until an American
manager who understood the art of advertising took hold of her. He
began his work at once by decorating his theatre in lavish style for
her first concert, and completed his initial triumph by causing a crowd
of young fellows to unhitch the horses from Patti's carriage and run
with the vehicle through the streets to her hotel. The report next day
said the amateur horses were society swells, and so the news went into
every State of the Union. Neilson's carriage was dragged through the
street in the same way once at Toronto. Patti got another free "ad."
by visiting Paddy Ryan, the pugilist John Sullivan knocked out of time,
in his training quarters at New Orleans, just as Bernhardt went to see
Englehardt's whale at Boston for the sake of the advertisement she got.

Just as Schneider kicked herself into the good graces of the Parisians,
Catherine Lewis, of "Olivette" fame, managed to "fling" herself into
popularity here. The Lewis fling in the farandole was known and sought
after everywhere. It was a wild and wayward tossing of limbs and arms
that caught the eye and held the attention not so much because there
was anything artistic in it, but because one expected every minute to
see it grow less and less restrained until it broke out into something
like the reckless indecency of the cancan. It advertised Catherine
Lewis as she has not been advertised since, and as she probably never
will be again. As the "fling" is not dead yet I will try to describe
it. After the solo and while the first chorus is being given she moves
back with the other dancers, throwing her arms from right to left and
left to right again, when the dancers came to a standstill. _Olivette_
is seen posing in a lop-sided, Pisa-like attitude, with both arms
and head inclining to the left. The chorus is repeated, and as the
repetition begins the dancers turn themselves loose with _Olivette_ in
the van. "Oho" she sings and swings to the left; "Oho" to the right,
"Oho" to the left again, when out pops the left slipper, followed
swiftly by the right ditto, and the toe of the latter foot-covering
tumbles over the horizon of the orchestra leader's head, and there is
a confusion of embroidery and white linen and silk hose that fills the
eye of the man in the parquette with a flash of joy and causes a warm
still wind to roll in a breezeful way around his cardiacal region.
"Oho," "Oho" and "Oho" again, with more body throwing, and this time
the elevation of the toe of the left slipper above the line of vision,
just a little higher than before, followed by three more "Oho's," and
the quivering of the satin slipper on the right foot high over the
foot-lights and in close range to the man with field glasses to his
eyes who is sitting in the first row of the parquette. And that's
all there is to the farandole--nine swings or throws of the body and
three kicks every time she comes down the stage, the altitude of the
kick growing with each succeeding effort until the last spasmodic,
ærial evolution of the satin slipper brings about a display of linen
that would do credit to the lingerie counter of a dry goods store.
_Olivette_ has the attention of the entire audience while this is going
on. She goes up and comes down the stage twice, swinging and kicking
with an anatomical riot behind her, every female member of the company
from the chorus girl up to the _Countess_ vying with _Olivette_ in
sending the farandole off with a hurrah and multiplicity of "flings."
When the chorus has come to an end, there is a bold encore for its
repetition, and away they go again.

    Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!
            Then would they be missing,
          Surely the girls went round about
          So long it took them finding out.
    Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!
            Till something like kissing,
          Told as plainly as could be
          Where were he and she.

Miss Lewis at one time while in New York was freely advertised in both
meanings of the word, because she sold tickets for her benefit in her
room at the hotel, where all could apply to purchase them.

Maggie Duggan, a young lady until recently comparatively unknown, has
suddenly made herself famous by nightly kicking her slipper to the top
of the Bijou Theatre, New York. She is a comic opera singer. This is
lofty limb work that Mlle. Sara, the original high kicker, might envy.

[Illustration: SLIPPERS FOR FREE PUFFS.]

Emilie Melville, an operatic star of California, in looking over her
stock of presents could think of nothing more suitable or anything that
would prove more acceptable to the dramatic critics of San Francisco
and her friends than to give each one of her slippers. So she held a
reception; and, dressed in Oriental toilet, she presented each as he
came with one of the tiny silken slippers in which her tootsies used to
slumber on the stage. It was such a novel proceeding that Miss Melville
got more gratuitous puffing than she could have paid for with the
profits of one of her best seasons.

Henry Mapleson, whom I know has no fear of the newspaper man, but
rather courts his society and wooes the columns of his paper, made the
following ridiculous statement (to a reporter) concerning the manner in
which he and his wife, Marie Roze, were pestered by reporters on the
road: "They began early in the morning. When I first opened my bed-room
door I was sure to find one or two outside of it. No detail was too
small for them. They would follow us around and give scraps of our
conversation, and one fellow even sat at the same dinner-table with us
in Kansas City and printed a list of all the things my wife ate, making
it about five times as long as the truth called for, and adding such
trifles as four oranges, six pieces of cake, etc. My wife was so angry
when this account appeared in the afternoon paper that we determined
to have our supper in our room, and, as the landlord would not consent
to that, I bought a steak during the evening, and Marie Roze, still
dressed as _Helen of Troy_, began to cook it over a spirit lamp. We
were congratulating ourselves that no reporter would know anything
about that supper, when a knock was given on the door. 'Who's there?' I
called out. The answer came back through the keyhole: 'I am a reporter
of the _Morning Buzzard_, and I want to know what you had for supper.
That _Evening Crow_ fellow got ahead of me on the dinner, but I'll
fetch him on the supper.'"

A story that illustrates, in an exaggerated way, though, the tricks of
the dramatic profession, is told of a shrewd agent who found himself
in Mansfield, Ohio, with a company on his hands and pursued by bad
business so relentlessly that he began to have doubts that he would
ever see Union Square again. In this strait he called his never-failing
wits to his aid and devised a plan straightway that led him out of the
difficulty, as had happened to him many a time before. He went to the
room of his star--his leading lady--and knocked. He was admitted. "Why,
Sam," said she, "what do you want at this hour?"

"I want your ear," said he.

"Oh, is that all," said the leading lady, recovering from her pallor;
"I thought--but no matter; go on."

"You know business is bad," said he.

"Well, I should smile," said the artiste; "since I haven't had any
salary for four weeks. What's the new racket."

"It's this," said the agent: "If we expect to go out of this town we've
got to do something Napoleonic. And you've got to do it."

"You forget my sex," said she.

"No, I don't," said he; "there may be a Napoleon in petticoats as well
as in trousers."

"Very well, what is it?"

"I want to get a column in each of the daily papers."

"Well, I guess you'll want it, for all the newspaper boys know we've
got a snide show this time," she said.

"Well, I guess not, if you'll do what I tell you," said the artful
agent.

"What is that?" inquired the guileless actress.

"You know the railroad bridge outside of town?"

"That shaky old wooden structure of patched logs and sleepers?"

"Yes."

"Well, what of it?"

"That bridge will get us columns in every paper for forty miles around."

"You've got 'em, Sam, sure."

"No, I haven't. I'm solid on the biz. Now listen: I want you to go
to-morrow and stand in the middle of that bridge when the two 2:20
trains pass each other going in opposite directions."

"Well, you are fresh. What'll I do that for?"

"For an 'ad.'"

"And where will I be when the trains pass?"

"Why, if you're smart and listen to me, you'll be clinging to the
trestle-work underneath until they pass over you, then I'll head on
back to the hotel and have all the reporters come up and interview you,
and then there will be columns published, the house will be filled that
night and we will rake in a heavy stake."

The actress saw the point and had the pluck to execute the project of
the agent. She stood on the bridge at the appointed time. She shrieked
in the most frantic manner. The engineer reversed the engine and
whistled down brakes, but in spite of all the train passed over her.
There was a great sensation. She was dragged out from the trestle-work
and taken to the hotel. The papers which would not take the
advertisement of the show because the manager could not pay in advance
sent reporters to interview the actress on her narrow escape, and gave
columns to the company. The result was a series of full houses and the
"snides" made a triumphant march eastward on the impetus of the shrewd
agent's "gag."




CHAPTER XXII.

THE ACTRESS AND THE INTERVIEWER.


In no other country in the world does the interviewer's profession
thrive as in these United States. From the cabinet minister--nay, the
President himself--down to the common felon, all at different times are
liable to what is called "the pressure of the pumping process." Some
classes naturally like being interviewed, because all publicity adds
to their importance and notoriety. The politicians are a specimen of
this species. Then, again, another class regards the interview as a
legitimate means of advertising and of attracting public attention to
themselves and their doings. This class specially includes the dramatic
profession. An enterprising manager is always ready to introduce his
star to a journalist. Actresses and prima donne are to a great degree
public personages, and there is an insatiable desire on the part of
individuals to learn something of the foot-light favorites when they
have doffed the stage costume, rubbed off the paint and powder, and
become, as it were, for the time being an ordinary mortal. Hence, the
newspapers have catered to this popular inquisitiveness, and there is
scarcely an actress or sweet singer of note who has not passed the
ordeal of the interviewing fiend. Mr. Henry W. Moore, city editor and
dramatic critic of the St. Louis _Post-Dispatch_, who has done as much
interviewing in this line as any newspaper man in the Western country,
thus records his impressions of the operatic and dramatic celebrities
whom he has met:--

Adelina Patti, the _casta diva_, always receives the journalist
attired in handsome toilettes. Her marriage with the Marquis de Caux
rendered her aristocratic in manners, and her behavior always has in
it a tinge of _noblesse oblige_. There is an almost imperceptible
flavor of condescension in her tone, which, while courteous, is rather
formal. Since her separation from De Caux, La Marquise has become
more accessible, and both she and Nicolini are almost warm in their
effusions to journalists.

Christine Nilsson receives the interviewer pleasantly, but rather
dignified in manner. She is somewhat cold in conversation, but her
manners are always courteous. She talks little.

Etelka Gerster likes the interviewer. At first she regarded him as
an American curiosity, but having learned his value she began to
caress him. Gerster is not at all so sweet in private life as is
generally believed. The Hungarian prima donna is very passionate and
quick-tempered, and rules her husband, Dr. Gardine, with her whims.
In the presence of the journalist she conceals her claws beneath her
velvety hand and is sweetness itself. She talks much, dotes on America
and the American people, and all that sort of gush. Her dresses are not
particularly artistic, conveying the impression that she is slovenly in
this regard.

Clara Kellogg submits to an interview as if it were a regular business
transaction. Her mother is always present and will frequently make
suggestions. Miss Kellogg chats pleasantly, but she has no warmth in
her manner and no magnetism in her conversation.

Annie Louise Cary is what the journalists term a "jolly" girl. She
does not care a whit what she says or does. She will laugh and chat
as if the interviewer were an old acquaintance. She greets him with a
spontaneous warmth and familiarity which are pleasant to him. He may
ask the most inquisitive questions and she will reply with a shrewd
smile. Amiable, good-tempered and lively in disposition, she is a great
favorite with newspaper men.

Minnie Hauk is impetuosity personified. Minnie usually has a grievance
against her manager, and she will pour her woes into the journalist's
ears with remarkable loquacity. But Minnie has a mother. After the
interviewer is gone Minnie will send him a note or a messenger
requesting him in Heaven's name not to publish what she said or she
would be undone. Yet, the next time Minnie meets a night of the quill
she reiterates her woes and wrongs with the same impetuosity. She
is frank to a fault, and confides a good deal in human nature. Her
frankness has involved her several times in trouble. She is very apt to
become unreasonably jealous of any other prima donna in the troupe, and
thus always keeps the impresario in a state of nervousness.

Emma Abbott is the gusher _par excellence_. At the first glance of the
interviewer she rushes towards him, seizes him with both her hands,
is Oh, so, so glad to see him! She talks with great rapidity and
unceasingly. The scribe to her is an old familiar friend. She insists
on his calling on her, dining with her, etc., etc. Her friendliness is
overwhelming. She loads the journalist with favors, and almost embraces
him in the ardor of her affection.

Sarah Bernhardt has all the French warmth and demonstrativeness. She
is witty and vivacious in her conversation, really likes journalists,
and will spend a whole day with them. She never tires, and is a study
to the newspaper man. She is, however, not insensible to flattery.
Her curiosity about things American is very keen. Being a delightful
entertainer, she was very popular with the journalistic profession. She
is fond of inviting them to breakfast.

Clara Morris is an excellent subject for an interview. Miss Morris
always prepares to receive the representative of the press in some
picturesque attitude or pose. She has a fine perception of artistic
effect, and never loses sight of the fact that it is an interview, and
hence has an eye to what will appear in print. In her discourse she
aims to be epigrammatic and witty; likes to be novel and original. Her
knowledge is very varied, and she converses with ease and fluency. Her
face sparkles, and her reception is always extremely cordial.

Modjeska, otherwise the Countess Bozenta, is, perhaps, the best
educated actress on the stage. She is a gifted linguist, well
read in French, German, and English literature. She is a charming
conversationalist. In manners she is a perfect lady, without any stage
eccentricities. She is a delightful hostess, and dispenses hospitality
most gracefully. Her bearing is courteous but thoroughly friendly,
and there is the impress of _la grande dame_ in her demeanor. She is
partial to canine pets.

Adelaide Neilson captured every journalist who ever interviewed her.
She seemed to bend all her energies to captivate her visitor. Her
remarkable beauty was a powerful aid, and the charm of her manner was
irresistible. When necessary, she was almost a man of business, and
transacted her affairs with much ability. Poor Adelaide was too potent
a spell for ordinary interviewers to withstand, and she always carried
her point.

Mary Anderson is a great talker. Her mother and step-father, Dr.
Hamilton Griffin, are usually in attendance at an interview. She is
decided in her opinions, and expresses her views fearlessly, but her
remarks are superficial. She is lively and a regular tom-boy, and
hesitates at nothing.

Fanny Davenport, who is noted for her expensive costumes on the stage,
is the reverse in private life. She is nearly always in a _neglige_
attire and looks somewhat slovenly. Fanny is rather averse to the
interviewer, but when she submits she is as charming and pleasant a
hostess as can be imagined. But nevertheless she thinks it a decided
bore to entertain.

Maggie Mitchell is a whole-souled, generous woman, without a spark of
affectation. She is frank, pleasant, and amiable.

Lotta, vivacious Lotta, is very demure in the presence of her mother
and the journalist. She is quite unlike the Lotta of the stage. Mrs.
Crabtree joins in the conversation, which Lotta carries on in a very
subdued but friendly manner.

Janauschek is firm, solid, and determined in her convictions. She has
strong likes and dislikes. She talks with much emphasis.

Mrs. D. P. Bowers is a pleasant lady to visit. She is quite motherly in
her manners. Her conversation contains much shrewd, caustic depth.

Charlotte Thompson is intellectual. She possesses what the French call
_esprit_ and her conversation is always enjoyable.

Emma Thursby is an interesting lady. The queen of the concert-room
is vivacious, lively, and talkative. She is exceedingly fond of
representatives of the press.

Marie Roze is only an indifferent entertainer. She is very fond of pet
dogs. The effort is always visible in her conversation, and the visitor
feels that she believes she is merely doing a necessary duty.




CHAPTER XXIII.

A FEW FOOT-LIGHT FAVORITES.


Little Peggy, afterwards the famous Mistress Woffington, was down
at the shores of Liffey drawing water for her mother, when Madame
Violante, a rope-walker, met her, and taking a liking to the girl, made
terms with the parents and obtained possession of her. Madame Violante
walked the rope with a child tied to her feet, and lovely little Peggy
for a while assisted in this way at her mistress's entertainments.
When the Madame got to Dublin she found a juvenile company playing
"Cinderella" there, and at once began the organization of a class of
children, who appeared in the play with Peggy as one of the bright
luminaries. This was her introduction to the stage, which she trod with
such brilliant success in after years. Nor was she the only one of the
famous old English actresses trained to the drama from childhood. All
through the history of theatricals, from and before Woffington's time,
children were made participants in the play, and the seeds planted
thus early ripened into the richest fruit. Until a very recent date
it was not deemed the duty of anybody to interfere with this kind of
training--not even with the barbarous treatment to which children
training for the circus ring were submitted. Less than a half century
ago the Viennese children went through the country dancing, and were
unmolested by any philanthropically inclined body or any excessively
humane individual. The juvenile "Pinafore" companies of two seasons
ago were regarded kindly by press and public; and, indeed, until
quite recently no extraordinary war was made against presenting the
talents of a child actor or actress to the people. The Society for the
Prevention of Cruelty to Children has, however, organized a stubborn
resistance to the employment of little ones in stage representations;
and while it may be well to exercise some authority for the protection
of infants and for the preservation of the stage from a deluge of
child-talent, there can be no justification in allowing that authority
to run riot in plucking every blossom from the tree of histrionism,
and erecting a permanent barrier against the development of native
talent, when any happens to exist in a child of tender years. The
experience of more than two centuries shows that the best training
is that which begins earliest, which begins slowly, and widens only
with the slow progress of the years. There are very few actors or
actresses who have walked out of private life into the glare of the
foot-lights with anything like success. The amateur may sometimes be
suddenly metamorphosed into a full-fledged professional, with a bit
of reputation to help him along the road he has chosen to travel, but
this happens very rarely. Only those who begin early and study hard,
and who have often to wait a long time for recognition, gain a place in
the Thespian temple, and it is to those whose infant eyes open almost
upon the mysteries and wonders of the mimic world, whose little limbs
grow to strength behind the scenes, and whose lives are identified
completely with all that have place or being behind the foot-lights,
that it is given to hope for position in the profession into which they
have been born instead of kidnapped.

[Illustration: MISS CONNOLLY IN ENCHANTMENT.]

I think the society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children did a
very good thing when it took Little Corinne from the stage. The child
was overtaxed far beyond her years; there was nothing very clever about
her any more than there would be about a school-girl of the same age
who had been taught to speak her piece and did it boldly, but awkwardly
and inartistically. It was more painful than pleasant to sit out a
performance of "Cinderella" with this offspring of the Kemble family in
the role of the heroine of the glass slipper, and it was a temporary
blessing to the public while the little thing was kept out of the way.
Like all the precocious ventures on the stage, Corinne will gradually
fade from memory, and the only thought left of her will be a painful
recollection of her childish efforts to please the grown people who
were foolish enough to go to the theatre to see her.

[Illustration: LITTLE CORINNE.]

The young man or the young lady who has given years of study to
preparation for the stage finds the debut night one fraught with
fears and hopes. There are friends behind the scenes and friends in
the audience willing to overlook faults and exaggerate excellencies;
but there are cold, stern critics, too, anxious to puncture the new
candidate for public favor in every tender spot their cruel eyes can
search out, and there is the great public, that fickle body whose
applause or condemnation often depends upon the whim of the moment. The
effort is an enormous one to the new player; the suspense, frightful. A
whole life's work may be swept out of sight in a moment, and the life
itself blighted forever. But when the moment of success arrives--what
a thrill of joy the triumph sends to the heart of the actress, if
actress it be! What a dream of glory she already begins to live in!
How her brain throbs and her heart bounds, and all the world seems a
paradise, beautiful and fair as Eden was when it left the hands of the
Creator! Friends crowd around, the house is ringing with applause, and
she tears away from the congratulations and kisses and hand-shakings to
step out before the curtain, and, with glowing face and tears in her
eyes, kisses her hand and makes a profoundly thankful obeisance to the
audience. Then she returns to her crowding friends on the stage, from
the manager down to the call-boy and scene-shifters, and her ears ring
with praise and encouraging words until it is time for the curtain to
go up once more.

The debut of Emma Livry, an artiste who promised to lead a very
brilliant career, but who was suddenly and early cut down by death,
is described in a very interesting manner by one who was present. It
was at the Grand Opera House, Paris, and the theatre was filled from
parquette to dome with an extraordinary audience. Louis Napoleon was
there, and the Empress Eugenie; princes and dukes filled the boxes,
and the nobility of France, representative Americans and prominent
Englishmen were in the audience. Emma Livry was then only sixteen. From
her earliest childhood, says the writer, she had been devoted to the
art of dancing--though this was no extraordinary thing, for there are a
large number of girls always in training for the Grand Opera in Paris,
who are taken at the age of four years, and kept in constant practice
until they reach womanhood, when they appear in public. But this girl
had shown extraordinary genius. In her later years the celebrated
dancer, Marie Taglioni, Countess de Voisius, hearing of the new dancer,
left her villa on the Lake of Como, and her palace in Venice, to come
to Paris to give the girl lessons. Her improvement was miraculous.
Taglioni said she would renew the triumphs she herself had won in
former days.

And now she glided upon the stage. The brilliant audience ceased their
chatter as she appeared. The occasion took the character of what it was
afterwards called in the newspapers--"a great solemnity." She was very
young and was just at that period in the life of a girl when her figure
is apt to be what old-fashioned people call raw-boned. She was tall,
thin, and pale. Her face was not handsome. Her form gave no evidence of
physical strength.

She was received in a hush of silence. "Let us see," this great
audience seemed to say, "what you really can do in this poetic art."
Any one who could have connected sensuality or grossness with this
girl would have been baser than a sybarite; and yet her dress was the
conventional dress of ballet dancers--short to the calf of the leg but
thickly clad above.

She began. O Grace, you never found a prototype till now! O Painting,
Sculpture, you paled before this supple, elastic, firm, yet dainty
tread. At the conclusion of her first movement, when with a gush of
sweet music she sprang like a fawn to the foot-lights, and extending
her slender arms and delicate hands towards the audience, as if to
ask, "Come, what is the verdict on me now?" a burst of enthusiastic
applause, loud shouts of "Brava!" and "Bravissima!" "C'est magnifique!"
waving of perfumed handkerchiefs, a deluge of sweet flowers formed the
response.

The whole evening was a series of triumphs. The Emperor and Empress
sent an aid-de-camp behind the scene to offer her the Imperial
congratulations. Marie Taglioni, accompanied by her noble husband,
sought the girl also, and taking from her breast a magnificent diamond
star, which had been given her in former days by the Emperor of Russia,
"Here," said she, "take this the queen of dance, Marie Taglioni, is
dead--long live the queen, Emma Livry!"

[Illustration: TAGLIONI CONGRATULATING EMMA LIVRY.]

As I passed out amongst the dense crowd, the writer continues, I saw a
woman of middle age, and respectably dressed, leaning against one of
the marble columns in the vestibule. Her face was flushed and she was
wiping tears from her eyes.

"You weep, Madonna?" said a gentleman who was passing.

"Yes, Monsieur," she replied, "but it is with joy. Who would not be
proud of such a daughter, and of such a tribute to her genius?"

There are few favorites of the public to-day who have not fought their
way to the front inch by inch, who have not sacrificed everything for
their art, toiling through the day that the work of the night might
show improvement--very few who have not served years of apprenticeship
on the stage before the moment of success arrived. And this has been
the rule always. Nell Gwynne, the fish-girl, whose beauty and bright
repartee attracted the attention of Lacy, the actor, and who peddled
oranges to the audience before she began to amuse them on the stage,
managed without much trouble, and during a short stage experience, to
win the heart of Charles II., who made her his mistress and retained
her while he lived, his parting words to those around his death-bed
being, "See that poor Nelly doesn't starve;" but Nelly did starve. She
died in poverty and left a line of dukes to perpetuate her plebeian
blood in royal veins. She died in November, 1687, in her thirty-seventh
year.

Lola Montez, the pretty Irish girl who in her fourteenth year eloped
with one Capt. James to avoid a disagreeable marriage, accompanied him
to India, where they got mutually tired of each other and returning
to England studied dancing and went on the stage, was another of those
fortunate and unfortunate fascinating women whose lives fade away fast
and who after a brief hey-day of luxuries lie down in rags and poverty
to seek a needed rest that is never broken. She won the hearts of
kings, led a revolution in Poland, and finally, after being driven from
her Bavarian castle where, as Countess of Lansfield she had ruled, and
strutting a brief hour in London in male attire, died in this country
January 17, 1861. Her ashes rest in Greenwood Cemetery, but she was
saved from a pauper's grave only through the charity of some friend.
During her life she had thrown away millions. Fallin, the husband of
Maude Granger, is the son of the man with whom Lola Montez had her last
escapade, Fallin, Sr., deserting his family in New York to accompany
Lola to San Francisco. Her real name was Marie Dolores Eliza Rospanna
Gilbert.

Another child of genius whom waywardness and frailty brought to an
early grave was Adelaide McCord, better known to the world as Adah
Isaacs Menken. She was born near New Orleans, June 15, 1835, and when
still young went on the stage as a ballet dancer in one of the theatres
of the Crescent City. She had been expelled from school, and tiring
of her native village, where she had created a sensation by embracing
the Jewish faith, she made the journey to New Orleans, and as I have
said went on the stage. Her career there was not a very brilliant one
until she began playing _Mazeppa_, the part with which her name has
since been identified. Prior to her time men had appeared in this
role. Her first appearance was on Monday night, June 17, 1861, in the
Green Street Theatre, New York, then under the management of Capt.
John B. Smith. On the first attempt to go up the run the horse after
making one turn fell, crashing through the scenery with the Menken on
its back. Horse and rider were picked up, and after some delay the
ascent was made amidst a great deal of enthusiasm. The appearance of so
beautiful a woman as Menken in the scarcity of clothing that _Mazeppa_
requires created a furore, and from that time her success was assured.
She fought spiritedly in the combat scene, breaking her sword and
otherwise won the good opinion of her first audience. Previous to this
she had married Alexander Menken, a musician in Galveston, but by this
time also she had obtained an Indiana divorce. While in New York she
met John C. Heenan, fresh from his victory over Tom Sayers, and after
a brief courtship married him. Another Indiana divorce soon dissolved
this knot, as it did a third time in the case of Orpheus C. Kerr (Robt.
H. Newell). All this time her fame was growing. She went to London, and
after setting the English metropolis on fire with her beauty returned
to New York, where she married James Barclay, a merchant, in whose
mansion she and her friends held such wild orgies that Barclay was glad
when she fled to Paris, where she was stricken down in the midst of her
mad career, in 1868. The brief but expressive epitaph, "Thou knowest,"
is carved upon her tomb.

Mary Anderson, the tragedienne, is the most phenomenal success of late
years. She was born July 28, 1859, in Sacramento, California. Her
parents removed to Louisville when she was one year and a half old,
and there she was educated in the Ursuline Convent. She had a longing
to be an actress from her earliest years, and all her readings tended
in the direction of the stage. She was taken away from school at the
age of thirteen, to pursue her studies for the profession to which
she seemed to be so strongly inclined. At the age of fifteen she went
to Cincinnati to see Charlotte Cushman act. While there she called on
Miss Cushman, who said she could give her only a five-minute audience.
Miss Anderson recited passages from "Richard III.," Schiller's "Maid
of Orleans," and "Hamlet." She remained with Miss Cushman three hours,
and the great actress had such confidence in her talents that she told
her to study a few hours each day for a year and then she might go on
the stage. This Miss Anderson did. An accident of some kind or other
left Macauley's Theatre in Louisville with a Saturday night for which
there was no attraction. Macauley knew Miss Anderson's desire to go on
the stage, and meeting her step-father, Dr. Hamilton Griffin, in the
street, told him the girl, who was then only sixteen, might have the
theatre that night. Miss Anderson was overjoyed. She chose _Juliet_ for
her debut, got a costume hurriedly together and after one rehearsal
and three days' preparation, appeared before a large audience, and
made a decided hit. This was on November 27, 1875. Macauley was so
pleased with the debutante that he gave her his first open week at
starring terms. She then went to St. Louis, in March, 1870, and added
greatly to the reputation she had won in her home city. Mr. John W.
Norton supported her. Ben De Bar sent her to his New Orleans Theatre,
and while in the Crescent City she was presented, by the citizens,
with a check for $500, and the Washington artillery presented her with
a jewelled badge of the battalion. Returning to Louisville again she
continued her studies through the summer, began starring the following
season, and has been before the public ever since. She is a young
lady of remarkable personal beauty, intelligent and accomplished, a
hard student, and one of the noblest and fairest of her sex that ever
adorned the stage.

[Illustration: LOTTA.]

Lotta Mignon Crabtree, another of the very successful women on the
stage, and one of the brightest soubrettes that ever delighted a
public, was born at No. 750 Broadway, New York, on November 7, 1847.
In 1854 her people removed to California, and Lotta made her first
appearance on a stage at a concert given at Laport; her second
appearance was at Petaluma, in 1858, when she played _Gertrude_ in
"The Loan of a Lover." She starred, they say, for two years as La
Petite Lotta. Before she made her appearance in New York we hear of her
in San Francisco at Burt's New Idea and Gilbert's Melodeon--concert
saloons--where Joe Murphy, Barnard, Cotton, Pest, Burbank, Billy
Sheppard, Backus and other prominent minstrels were engaged. The
Worrell Sisters, Maggie Moon (now Mrs. Williamson) and Lotta were in
the company, and there was great rivalry between them at the time. The
theatre was crowded every night up to the close of the first part in
which there was a "walk around," in which the girls entered into the
liveliest kind of a competition. Each did her utmost to out-dance the
other. Each favorite had her host of admirers and the demonstration
on the part of the audience was intense. After the "walk around"
the house became almost empty, showing that this was the attractive
feature. Lotta was very ambitious, and whenever she failed to score a
triumph she would retire to her dressing-room and cry bitterly. From
San Francisco her parents took her to New York, where she gave her
first performance at Niblo's Saloon, June 1, 1864. She wasn't a success
in New York, so she went to Chicago and played "The Seven Sisters" at
McVicker's. Fortune began to smile on her there, and her success dates
from this point. One night during this engagement an unknown admirer
threw a $300 gold watch and chain upon the stage. Lotta cannot sing any
more, but she kicks as cutely as of yore, dances neatly, and is as
vivacious as a girl of sixteen.

[Illustration: MAGGIE MITCHELL.]

Maggie Mitchell, who has been a great favorite ever since she produced
"Fanchon" at Laura Keene's Theatre, June 9, 1862, was born in New York
in 1832, of poor parents. She began to play child parts at the old
Bowery and in 1851 had advanced to responsible business. She made a hit
at Burton's Theatre as _Julia_ in "The Soldier's Daughter," and then
began starring in "The French Spy," "The Young Prince," and like plays,
but did nothing remarkable until, as I have already said, she made a
hit in "Fanchon," an adaptation of George Sands's novel "La Petite
Fadette." Following this came "Jane Eyre," "The Pearl of Savoy," and
"Mignon." Miss Mitchell has amassed a fortune by her efforts. Her name
off the stage is Mrs. Paddock, she having married Mr. Henry Paddock, of
Cleveland, Ohio, in Troy, New York, October 15, 1868.

[Illustration: EMMA ABBOTT.]

Emma Abbott, the finest of American lyric artistes, after the usual
freaks of an ambitious childhood and the trials of an operatic training
in Milan and Paris, was given a London engagement by Mr. Gye and made
her debut at the Royal Italian Opera, Covent Garden, on May 2, 1876.
The debut was a success, and with the congratulation of friends, the
best wishes of all who knew her, and the predictions of the best judges
of vocal music that she had a brilliant future ahead of her, she set
out on a tour of the provinces, singing through England and Ireland
and everywhere winning the love and applause of the people. Returning
to her own country the artiste gave two seasons of concerts, and began
to sing light opera. She has created the role of _Virginia_ in "Paul
and Virginia," and _Juliet_ in "Romeo and Juliet," both which operas
she introduced here. Her repertory includes, besides the two named,
"Mignon," "Maritana," "The Bohemian Girl," "Martha," "Il Trovatore,"
and "Faust." She has a sweet, clear, crystalline voice, which she uses
to great effect, is a charming lady personally, a careful, pure, and
energetic artiste, and altogether wholly deserves to be called, as she
is, "Honest Little Emma."

Marion Elmore, a charming little soubrette who is looking after Lotta's
laurels, is a native of England and has been on the stage since her
third year, having then played _Meenie_ with Joe Jefferson in "Rip
Van Winkle." She was born in 1860 in a tent on the gold fields of
Sandhurst, Australia. She came to this country with Lydia Thompson in
1878, and played in burlesque until the season of 1881-2 when she took
a soubrette part in Willie Edouin's "Sparks." She is now starring under
the management of Hayden & Davis in "Chispa," a California play.

Edwin Booth, the illustrious son of Junius Brutus Booth, was born
at Belair, near Baltimore, Maryland, in November, 1833. He was his
father's dresser, accompanying him on all his tours, and receiving from
him lessons in histrionism. On September 10, 1849, he made his first
appearance at the Boston Museum as _Tressel_, in "Richard III.," and
on May 22, 1850, appeared at the Arch Street Theatre, Philadelphia, as
_Wilford_, in the "Iron Chest." In 1850 he distinguished himself by
playing "Richard III.," at the Chatham Theatre, New York, in the place
of his father, who had disappointed. His first independent appearance
in the metropolis, however, was made on May 4, 1857, as _Richard III._,
at the Metropolitan, afterwards the Winter Garden Theatre. In 1851 he
went to California and thence wandered to the Sandwich Islands and
Australia in 1854. In 1857 he returned to New York. He was known as an
actor of ability, but it was not until his famous engagements at the
Winter Garden that he succeeded in making a really profound impression
on the public. During this revival "Hamlet" ran one hundred nights and
Mr. Booth at once stepped to a foremost position before the public. His
disastrous investment in the theatre that bore his name in New York is
well known. It compelled him to go into bankruptcy in 1872, since which
time he has been the most successful of American stars. He has been
twice married--to Mary Devlin, an actress in 1861, who died in 1862,
and to Mary McVicker, daughter of J. H. McVicker, of Chicago, who died
in 1881. His _Hamlet_ is the finest interpretation of that character on
the American stage, and this with _Bertuccio_, in "The Fool's Revenge,"
and _Brutus_, are his best impersonations.

John McCullough, though born in Ireland, came to this country when very
young. He was poor and an orphan, and poverty had been "looking in at
the door" of the humble home where he passed his boyhood for many a
year. Yet the tenant farm which his father held was once the pride of
all the country round, and the child's earliest recollections called to
mind a happy time which too soon, alas, passed away. His mother had
died when the son was a mere lad, and misfortunes came not singly but
in hosts after that bereavement. Sir Harvey Bruce, the landlord of the
estate, though a kindly man, as Mr. McCullough testified, claimed his
legal rights, and all that appertained to the estate held by the family
was taken possession of by law, and father and son driven out from
their home.

"How well I recall the time," said Mr. McCullough, "and every scene and
incident of that eviction--as it would, I suppose, be called now. I was
a boy of about twelve years or so, and the greatest trial to me was the
sale of a pony which I prized most highly. I couldn't bear to part with
the pony, and Sir Harvey Bruce, who saw my grief and knew its cause,
kindly arranged matters so that before long I was able to call the
animal once more my own. It was an act of goodness which, of course, I
have never forgotten."

Not long after the eviction the father died, and the boy was left in
the care of an uncle. But, like thousands of others, young McCullough
had heard of the land of freedom beyond the Atlantic, and it was not
long before he decided to leave kindred and friends, and seek a home
in America. With all his earthly possessions in a bundle the young lad
landed at New York, and with characteristic pluck and energy began
the battle for existence. He followed various callings, but soon felt
within him the desire to become an actor. Fortunately the foreman of a
chair factory in Philadelphia, where he was employed, sympathized with
the aspirations of the future actor, and often studied with him the
great Shakespearean tragedies in which McCullough afterward attained
such renown.

[Illustration: CALLED BEFORE THE CURTAIN.]

It was in the winter of 1857 that the young aspirant for Thespian
honors first stood upon the stage; and he began in Philadelphia his
professional career at the munificent salary of $1 a week. For several
seasons he acted the "heavy villain" line in the Shakespearean
drama, and made steady improvement in his art. A great event in his
career was his engagement to support the great Forrest in 1862; for
it gave him opportunities which such a man as McCullough was not slow
to improve. The grand qualities which marked Forrest's acting were
made the subject of careful study by the young actor, and to-day John
McCullough is recognized everywhere as the successor to the famous
American tragedian. His career as an actor, interrupted only by a
brief managerial experience in San Francisco, has been one of steadily
increasing success.

John McCullough's starring experience dates from only a few years back;
yet his impersonations, with peerless _Virginius_ at the head, have won
fame and fortune in all parts of the country, and gained for him also
the highest honors on the English stage.

J. K. Emmett, or Joe Emmett, as he is familiarly called the world over,
was born in St. Louis on March 23, 1841. He early had a penchant for
the stage, and could rattle bones, play a drum or do a song and dance
on a cellar-door better than any of his companions. He began life as
a painter, but soon left the pot and brush for the stage of the St.
Louis Bowery, where his specialty was Dutch "wooden-shoe business." He
could sing finely, and was as graceful as a woman. So popular did he
become in his line that Dan Bryant engaged him for his New York house
in 1866. Two seasons later Charles Gayler wrote "Fritz," a nonsensical
play without rhyme or reason, and Emmett opened with it in Buffalo. His
success was indifferent at first, but within a short time "Fritz" and
Emmett became the rage, and for fifteen years the people have actually
run after this star. His name and play will fill any theatre in the
United States, and in many places outside of the United States. He is
the great pet of the public. Time and again has he disappointed them,
but it makes no difference; the next time he announces himself ready to
play they are there in throngs. Joe Emmett has friends the whole world
over, and he is welcomed and admired everywhere.

John T. Raymond's real name is John T. O'Brien. He became stage-struck
while clerking in a store, and after a brief amateur experience made
his first appearance on the professional stage as _Lopez_, in "The
Honeymoon," on June 27, 1853, and played comedy with varying fortune
until 1874, when "The Gilded Age," which had been dramatized, was
brought out at Rochester, New York, on August 31st, and he made an
immense hit as _Col. Mulberry Sellers_. Next to _Colonel Sellers_,
John T. Raymond's enduring popularity rests upon his impersonation
of _Fresh, the American_, in the drama of that name, which he is now
impersonating throughout the country. In connection with both his best
known parts Mr. Raymond may be said to have "made" the plays they are
framed in. Without them those plays would be flat, and in any other
hands than his the characters which relieve them of that odium would
be insipid. It is the actor's art and personal magnetism alone which
make them what they are--successes. A good story, whether it be true or
not, is told about Raymond and John McCullough. The latter was asked to
appear as _Ingomar_, with Miss Anderson as _Parthenia_, at a benefit
performance for a friend. As an additional inducement the beneficiary
asked Raymond to play _Polydor_. "Certainly, with great pleasure," said
Sellers; "I will travel one thousand miles any time to play _Polydor_
to McCullough's _Ingomar_." The happy man ran off to tell his good
fortune to McCullough; but the tragedian, in his deepest _Virginius_
voice, answered him: "No, sir, never, never again! Once and out." The
explanation of Mac's refusal to have Raymond in the cast is given as
follows:--

It seems that at a certain benefit in Virginia City, "Ingomar" was the
play, Mr. McCullough sustaining the title role and Mr. Raymond played
_Polydor_. _Polydor_, it will be remembered, is the old Greek duffer
who has a mortgage on _Myron's_ real estate, and presses for payment
in hopes to get _Parthenia's_ hand in marriage. The performance went
beautifully, and the applause was liberal, for McCullough was playing
his best. Raymond was the crookedest and most miserly of _Polydors_,
and the savage intensity he threw into his acting surprised all who
imagined he could only play light comedy. All went more than well
until _Ingomar_ offered himself as a slave to _Polydor_ in payment
of _Myron's_ little account. "What, you?" screamed _Polydor_, and,
apparently overcome by the thought, he "took a tumble," and fell
forward upon _Ingomar_. _Ingomar_ stepped back in dismay, when
_Polydor_, on all fours, crept nimbly between his sturdy legs and
tried to climb up on his back. The audience "took a tumble," and the
roof quivered and the walls shook with roars of laughter. "D--n you,"
groaned _Ingomar_, _sotto voce_, "if I only had you at the wings?"
But _Polydor_ nimbly eluded his grasp, and, knocking right and left
the dozen supes, who were on as the army, he skipped to the front of
the stage and climbed up out of reach of the projecting mouldings of
the proscenium. Here he clung, and, to make matters worse, grinned
cheerfully at the pursuers he had escaped, and rapidly worked the
string of a trick wig, the long hair of which flapped up and down in
the most ludicrous fashion. It was impossible for the play to proceed,
and the curtain was rung down, leaving _Polydor_ still on his lofty
perch, while the audience laughed and shouted itself hoarse. And this
is the reason why Mr. McCullough said, "No, sir, never again!" to Mr.
Raymond's offer.

[Illustration: FAY TEMPLETON IN "BILLEE TAYLOR."]

I may add that among the young people of the stage who are possessed of
that personal magnetism that makes them popular, is Fay Templeton, who
is not only pretty, but thoroughly original.




CHAPTER XXIV.

CHINESE AND JAPANESE THEATRICALS.


If the Chinese must go they will have to close up the large theatres
in San Francisco owned and controlled by Celestial managers. In these
temples of the almond-eyed Thespis extraordinary plays are enacted
running through months and even years, in a to-be-continued style, for,
the Chinese dramatist, who never writes anything but tragedy of the
wildest and most harrowing kind, always begins with the birth of his
hero or heroine and does not let the merest incident pass until his
or her friends are ready to sit down to a feast of roast pig and rice
by the side of the principal character's grave. The dramas are mainly
historical, and many a Chinaman who starts in to see a first-class
play of the average length is on his way back to China in a coffin
or box with his cue neatly folded around him for a burial robe, long
before the last act of the drama is reached. So, too, the star actors
frequently die before they have time to finish the play. I don't know
that any American has ever had the patience to wait for the denouement
of a Chinese drama, but to the saffron-skinned, horse-hair-surmounted
and slanting-eyed citizen of San Francisco, his theatre is a place next
in importance to the Joss House or temple, and when he once buys his
season ticket for a show, he sticks to it with a pertinacity that would
put an ordinary glue or cement advertisement to the blush. It is the
same, too, when they patronize a theatre in which the surroundings and
language are English; once in their seats, they stay--forgetting even
to go out between the acts for an opera-glass or a bottle of pop.

But to return to the Chinese theatre. Its interior differs very little
from the interior of the places of amusement frequented by his American
brother. The general contour and arrangement of the auditorium is
pretty much the same. The men sit together on benches partitioned off
into single seats in the lower portion of the house, or pit, with their
little round hats on, and their pipes or cigars in their mouths; the
ladies, who are not allowed into the male portion of the auditorium,
have galleries for themselves whence they look down upon the actions
of their male friends below. Everywhere except on the stage quiet and
the utmost serenity prevail, no person in the audience moving a hand,
raising a foot, or opening a lip, even when the villain is cut into
ribbons by the Sunday-school hero; and at no stage of the performance
does the slightest manifestation of delight or disapprobation come from
the patient and enduring on-looker. In this respect John Chinamen has
neglected to take a lesson from his American cousin, or to acquire the
character of the howling short-haired gentlemen who apotheosize Dennis
Kearney and think there is no better worshipping place in the world
than "the sand lots."

The largest Chinese theatre in San Francisco is on Washington Street
and was opened in 1879. Its auditorium is almost a copy of the best
theatres of the large cities of the country. Its audience is seated
and separated in the manner I have described, and their behavior is,
in accordance with the custom of their country, quiet and respectful.
The stage of the theatre, though, is a curiosity. There is no curtain,
and but one scene that never changes. On the side of the stage--or
proscenium--long slips of colored paper with Chinese characters on
them are hung--the adages and axioms of what is familiarly known as
tea-chest literature--and numerous multi-colored lanterns shed their
radiance around the place. At the back of the stage sit several
musicians with tom-toms, cymbals, fiddles, and divers other instruments
all of wonderful construction and with frightful capacity for setting
anybody but a Chinaman crazy. These musicians seem to be as important
elements in the action and meaning of the play as the actors themselves
are. As soon as the performance begins they immediately tune up, and
from that on until the show is over they never give the audience or
the music a single rest. The play usually begins at five o'clock in
the afternoon and continues until two the following morning, so it
will be readily understood that the Chinese musician has a pretty wide
scope for his genius, while the Chinese audience must be more than
mortal to stand both the music and the actors for some hours at a
stretch. The actors make themselves as hideous as possible, employing
wigs and long beards with plenty of paint to disguise themselves.
They stalk and stamp around in a manner highly suggestive of the
English-speaking "scene-eater," and there is a great deal of stabbing
and killing--thunder and blood, so to speak--which is wasted, as the
audience does not seem to rise to the enthusiasm of the occasion and
there are no "gallery gods" to help bring the house down. While the
actors are shouting loudest, the musicians, all of whom seem to be
playing different tunes, are working hardest and the din and discord
of a supremely grand moment of Chinese tragedy are something horrible
to hear and simply torturesome to endure. Boys or young men play
the female parts as was the custom on the English stage in the time
of Elizabeth. There is no levity in the performance, no prancing or
dancing, nothing but the utmost severity and solemnity, which leaves
me in doubt whether the Chinese go to the theatre to be amused or are
compelled by some law of their country or religion to do so.

The property-room of a Chinese theatre is a very queer concern, filled
up with lanterns, old clothes, spears, etc., but the most extraordinary
feature of the place is the quantity of eatables that find their
way into the room and down the throats of the performers. That most
delicious morsel, roast pig, of whose discovery by the Celestials
Charles Lamb has written so charmingly, occupies a prominent place on
the board, and is frequently attacked by the actors, who appear to
come off the stage as hungry as six-day go-as-you-please pedestrians
are when they leave the track. When the Chinese actor is not acting or
putting on his costume you may depend upon it that he is eating. This
histrionic peculiarity is strongly marked among the descendants of
Ho-Fi, who if they are not good tragedians have first-class appetites
and stomachs whose capacity is not measured by three meagre meals a day.

A correspondent writing from Yokohama gives an idea of the amusements
served up in the Japanese capital by its enterprising theatrical
managers. The Japanese, says this writer, are a theatre-going
people, and their taste is catered unto continually. Whether the
managers accumulate riches I know not, but theatrical amusements are
provided for the wants and means of all classes. At the first-class
establishment is a revolving stage, upon which is placed the scenery
and properties devoted to the play on the boards. The orchestra
occupy the left-hand side of the stage, or rather they are placed
in an elevated pen at the left of the stage floor. The revolving
part of the business is about fifteen feet from the foot-lights, the
intervening space being permanent. The wings are not elaborate, and
not much machinery is employed to work up effects. The inevitable trap
is utilized on this stage, it being the only place that boasts of the
improvement. The actors at this theatre are of the first rank, and
their dresses are gorgeous in the extreme. "Regardless of expense" must
be their motto; and here are produced all the famous plays known to the
natives, they being all of national significance.

The Japanese are patriotic in their instincts, and do not run after
strange representations with which to amuse themselves. Everything
on the board is intensely Japanese--descriptive of their fables and
romances, as well as reproducing actual episodes in the history of the
empire. To the stranger who is alien to the language their plays are
first-class pantomimes only, though one can but accord the actors rare
dramatic ability. I must say, however, that the style affected in their
stage step is something too awfully too too for anything. The poetry of
motion is a different affair here from what is considered the correct
thing elsewhere. Keene or Billy Emerson could, either of them, get a
new kink in a stage walk if they could study Japanese methods a while.
It costs thirty cents to enter the temples of dramatic art--that is, to
be in the place for the upper tendom, the gallery--or dress circle, it
may be called--which runs on both sides of the house, as well as on the
end fronting the stage. This gallery is about five feet wide, and is
entered from the passage-way running along it through openings in the
partition without doors. It is divided into spaces of five feet or
more by placing a round piece of timber of say two inches in diameter
from the gallery front and the back of it. The front is elevated above
the floor about fifteen inches only, as the occupants are expected to
sit upon their haunches on the matted floor. Between acts tea is served
to any who will buy, and smoking is allowed all over the house during
the play. The body of the theatre is supplied with benches without
backs for the accommodation of the audience.

[Illustration: CHINESE THEATRE.]

There is no sharp practice in the way of reserved seats in Japanese
theatres. Neither is there necessity to go outside for a clove or
browned coffee. When once seated you are at your ease, not having to
draw yourself up for any other fellow. The second-grade places are
of a cheaper order, where one can sit on the floor, there being no
seats, or stand upon the ground, there being no floor, the earth doing
duty in that regard. One cent and a half and two cents and a half
give the grades of the establishments. They are all, best as well as
inferior, lighted with the domestic-made candle, and when the original
dips of our grandmothers are remembered, the kind of a candle used
is described. The candles smoke as well as the audience. There is a
large stock of amusement to be had in a one and a half cent concern,
that is, if you are not particular about the æsthetic nature of the
surroundings, and do not carry with you a cultivated musical ear. These
places do not carry on their pay-roll any large number of star actors,
or a numerous stock company, and they do not devote much time to the
rehearsal of parts, as it is the duty of the prompter to flit from one
actor to another with the lines of the dialogue in one hand, and in the
other a stiff paper lantern. Bending low, he reads in a tone readily
caught by the actor the lines, which are duly repeated, while the
prompter "is doing his duty" by the next one. It is one of the most
interesting features of a play, this constant flitting of the prompter.
If any fellow about the establishment earns his pay, the prompter is
the man.

[Illustration: CHINESE PROPERTY-ROOM.]

There are very many side-shows to attract the pleasure-seeker, all of
them being within the compass of the humblest, the charge being from
one-half cent to one and one-half cents. In these places are witnessed
juggling tricks of real merit, and top-spinning that is a bewilderment
to the looker-on. Tops of all sizes are spun with the aid of a string,
and made to revolve by the action of the hands only. An expert will
throw his top from him, and by the action of the string as it unwinds
draw it back so that it is caught in his hand--of course, without it
having touched the ground. An unopened fan is then taken in the other
hand, and the top is placed upon one of its sides and spun along it.
Then the fan is opened, and the top continues to spin along its edge
to its farther side, and along it until the hand is reached, when up
it runs on the arm to the shoulder, and across the back and down the
other arm, on to the fan again. Then it will be tossed into the air
and caught upon one of the corners of the opened fan, from which it
is tossed again and again into the air and caught as it descends. It
is wonderful the way they can manipulate a top. I have seen them take
a large-sized one, having a spindle by which it was made to rotate,
and by simply placing the spindle between the palms of the hands, and
drawing one hand back while advancing the other a number of times it
attained sufficient velocity, when it was taken from the table on which
it was spinning and a turn taken around the spindle with a string that
was pendant from a paper lantern hanging high up against the ceiling
of the building. Up went the top into the lantern, which opened into
the shape of an umbrella, and a wealth of festoons of bright-colored
tissue paper descended from it all about the stage. Those who witnessed
Little All Right and the troupe of Japanese acrobats that exhibited
their tricks years ago in the United States will remember the many
surprising feats done by them. What they paid $1 for seeing can be
witnessed in Yokohama in the open air for just what one is pleased to
contribute, or under cover for from one to three cents.

[Illustration: MINNIE MADDERN.]

There are no manifestations of applause, no cat-calls or signs of
impatience. In the places visited by even the poorest, where the
accommodations are of the rudest, perfect order is observed, and every
one seems to be possessed of a patient quietness that is amazing. They
exhibit a deference for the comfort of their fellows that is worthy of
imitation. One great reason, perhaps, that the people are so gentle
and accommodating, one to the other, may be found in their complete
sobriety. No exhibition of drunken rowdyism is to be seen, and yet the
entire people, women as well as men, drink of the national beverage,
"sake," a liquor distilled from rice. As there is no "tarantula juice"
in its composition, its inebriating quality is rather mild. Its effect
upon the brain is not lasting, neither is it injurious.




CHAPTER XXV.

OPERA AND OPERA SINGERS.


Ferdinand Palmo, who died in New York in September, 1869, as poor
as the proverbial church mouse, was the father of Italian opera in
this country. He was born in Naples in 1785 and came to America when
twenty-five years old, settling in Richmond, Virginia. After remaining
there six years he moved to New York, but not proving successful in
a business venture returned to Virginia. After paying two visits to
Europe he again tried New York and built a café, which he run until
1835 when he opened a saloon chamber, which was afterwards converted
by him into Palmo's Opera House, and in which Italian opera was for
the first time presented to the American people on February 2, 1844.
The opening opera was "Il Puritani," and during the season the best
operas of the day were produced. The venture, however, did not prove a
financial success. Palmo was reduced to poverty. With the assistance of
friends he opened a small hotel, and after nine months became cook for
a Broadway restaurant "where," says a writer, "he might often have been
seen wearing his white apron and square cap and engaged in preparing
the delectable dishes for which that establishment was noted." The
death of his employer threw Palmo out of work and reduced him to
straitened circumstances. As he was too old to do anything, members of
the dramatic and musical professions met and organized a Palmo Fund,
each person in the organization agreeing to pay $13 per year toward
the old man's relief, and he lived comfortably on this fund until the
day of his death. It is a curious fact that no musical or theatrical
celebrities attended his funeral.

Forty years have effected a great change in the taste of the people
of the United States. Italian opera now is one of the best paying
things in the musical or dramatic market. Announce a season of grand
opera in any city, and from that time on until the date of opening
the manager of the theatre in which the season is to be held will be
bothered by applicants for places. Double and treble the ordinary price
of admission is asked, but that makes no difference; everybody seems
desirous of patronizing Italian opera, and the extra price is paid
without grumbling. These high prices of admission must be paid because
it costs a vast amount of money to run Italian opera, transporting
large companies long distances, paying immense salaries, and
shouldering the enormous expenses of equipping an opera organization
and mounting the pieces.

It is a great sight to see an opera company travelling. The principal
singers must have their sleeping-cars and dining coaches, those
beneath them put up with sleeping berths merely, while the members of
the chorus are crowded like emigrants into an ordinary coach, from
out which roll odors of fried garlic and Italian sausage. When their
destination is reached the prima donne find carriages in waiting to
drive them to the best hotel in the place. The secondary artists may
also have carriages, but they go to minor hotels, while the chorus
people are left to themselves to seek cheap boarding-houses and do the
best they can. Wagon loads of trunks follow the carriages and wagon
loads go to the theatre. Sometimes there is scenery. For instance,
Mapleson always carries the scenery for "Aida," even to big cities
where there are first-class theatres. Hundreds of pieces of baggage are
left at the hotels, and hundreds at the theatre. Immediately the troupe
arrives the principal artists fall into the hands of the interviewer,
and as the tenor and the prima donna and the others, too, are tired,
the newspaper man gets very little to write about unless he runs across
such a good fellow as Campanini, or happens to meet Charles Mapleson,
if it is Her Majesty's Company.

Then on the following morning comes the rehearsal. The triumph is
the usual sequel. All the young ladies are immediately "mashed" on
the tenor, and would willingly follow the example of some New York
beauties, who went as a committee of the whole behind the scenes one
night to place a wreath of bay leaves on the head of their favorite
warbler, only they have amateur tenors of their own by their sides who
might not relish such a display of their appreciation of good music.

[Illustration: CROWNING A TENOR.]

While her Majesty's Opera Company was having a season at the Academy
of Music, New York, two years ago, a newspaper man interviewed Col.
Mapleson, the impresario, and took a look at the interior of the
establishment, exploring many of its mysteries. In the course of the
conversation he asked:--

"How many rehearsals do you give a new opera?"

"Ah, now I can tell you something that the public know nothing of.
A man of the crutch-and-toothpick school, after I've put on, let me
say 'Aida' at a cost of $10,000, will come to me and say, 'Aw, I've
seen "Aida" twice; when are you going to give us something new?' And
the poor manager has to smile and mount something equivalent to it
immediately. Rehearsals! _Par example._ This is the sixth full-hand
rehearsal for the orchestra alone--drilling for two and three hours--to
get the light and shade of the _pianissimo_ and _forte_. After some
more band rehearsals--the slight alterations in the score by Arditi
kept four copyists at work all last night and until daybreak--the
principal artists rehearse about twenty times with the piano; then
comes a full rehearsal with band, the artists seated all around the
stage on chairs; then the property-man has to have his rehearsal.
The carpenters now come in for their rehearsals, with scene framers,
etc. Then comes the first stage rehearsal, with everybody without
the scenery, and then another with the scenery; later on again with
the properties and the business, and _then_ it is fit for public
representation. Then a languid swell will tell me he has seen the opera
twice, and will want to know when I am going to give something new."

An attendant here brought the colonel his letters, over which he
hastily glanced.

"Here is a letter from the Prince of Wales," he exclaimed, showing me
the note, dated Hotel Bristol, Paris, October 22d. "It's in reference
to his omnibus box at Her Majesty's. While I am free for a moment from
my den, just take a tour of this place. I'll act as guide, philosopher
and friend. I'd like you to see what's going on, and to let the public
know what a herculean task it is to run old operas, let alone producing
new ones."

We strode across the stage and plunged into a cavernous passage, to
emerge on a staircase and into a property-room.

"What dummy is this?" demanded the colonel, administering a kick to the
decapitated form of a buxomly-proportioned female, "and where's the
head?"

It is the "Rigoletto" corpse.

We took a peep into the armory, which, from its aroma of oil, painfully
reminded me of my ocean experience. Here the "Talismano" helmets,
Oriental of design; here the head-pieces worn in the "Puritani,"
reminding one of Cromwell's crop-eared knaves; here the Italian so
well known in "Trovatore." Morions and breastplates and shields were
here, and matchlocks of ancient pattern, with guns of the Martini-Henry
design.

"Do you see these guns?" suddenly exclaimed the colonel. "I bought
four hundred of them for five shillings a piece at an auction. They
had been sold by an English firm to the French government during the
Franco-Prussian war at a fabulous price. One night, at Dublin, we were
doing 'Der Freischutz,' and poor Titjens was standing at the wing. One
of these guns was loaded with a little powder rammed down by a piece of
paper only. When fired, the lock blew off, and a piece of it went right
through Titjens's dress, sticking in the wall behind her. What chance
had the French with such weapons in their hands?"

From the armory we proceeded to the barber shop, where "Mignon,"
"Aida," "Traviata," and "Lucia" wigs, curls, moustaches and beards
showed grizzly on shelves. A French barber was engaged in titifying
Campanini's wig for "Linda," and he expatiated on its wonderful
approach to nature with all the _chic_ of his very expressive mother
tongue.

In one of the wardrobes were the costumes for half a dozen operas,
each opera folded away and labelled. Colonel Mapleson has about two
thousand costumes with him, and his packing-cases, each the size of a
small apartment, number nearly one hundred. We found the Nilsson Hall
full of newly painted scenery, and the flies thronged with carpenters.
The scene painter's room was devoted to "Aida," while the stage-man's
room was choked full of flotsam and jetsam, from the lamp of a Vestal
Virgin to the statuette of Cupid _in puribus naturalibus_, and from a
loaded pistol to a roleau of stage gold.

[Illustration: PATTI.]

"The stage brass band is rehearsing in the lower regions, the
principal artistes doing 'Trovatore' in the first saloon, the chorus
rehearsing 'Marta' in the second saloon, the orchestra on their own
ground rehearsing 'Aida,' the ballet at work in a large room, and a set
of coryphees blazing away in a distant corner. Listen!"

In the first saloon were the "Trovatore" party, lounging around a
piano, presided at by Bisaccia, the accompanist to the company. Mlle.
Adini, _neé_ Chapman, the _Leonora_, was warbling right under the
moustache of her husband, _Aramburo_, the tenor who was frantic because
Mapleson refused £800 to release him from his engagement; while Del
Puente was slapping his leg vigorously with his walking-cane, as he
occasionally burst in with a superb note in harmony with the score.
Madame Lablache leant with her elbows upon the bar, and knowing every
square inch of a role she had performed from St. Petersburg to Gotham,
turned from the perusal of a newspaper at the right moment in order
to discharge the electricity of her _Azucena_, while her daughter,
who is studying for the operatic stage, attended _en amateur_, a toy
black-and-tan terrier in her arms. Having listened to a delicious
_morceau_ from "Il Trovatore," we ascended to saloon No. 2, from whence
a Niagara of melody was grandly thundering. Here we found the chorus,
numbering about eighty, seated hatted and bonneted, with Signor Rialp
presiding at the pianoforte. The rehearsal was "Marta." After visiting
a dozen different departments, every one of which is presided over by a
vigilant chief, we again found ourselves on the stage.

"_Now_" exclaimed the colonel, "you have some little idea of
what I have to look after, and yet when I produce a new opera, a
crutch-and-toothpick fellow will coolly ask me, after seeing it twice,
when I am going to give something 'new.' Do you know that every one
in that chorus you have just seen is an Italian, and selected after
considerable trouble and great expense? Do you know what it costs me to
operatically rig up each member of that chorus?"

[Illustration: GERSTER.]

"I cannot tell."

"Well, it costs me $600, and it cost me $15,000 to bring the troupe
across the Atlantic. Do you know what it costs me every time I ring
up my curtain? Two thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars, and then
add the weekly hotel bills, $2,200. I am doing opera at Her Majesty's
at this moment. Here's the bill"--handing me the programme of Her
Majesty's--"doing the same operas as here, and that in order to do
them here, I am obliged to get a second set of _everything_, from a
drinking-cup to a bootlace, and this costs me £120,000 before I started
at all, as this is a distinct and separate undertaking."

"How many operas does your repertoire include?"

"Thirty. I have thirty with me, and I can play any one of them. Another
element I have to deal with is the superstition, or whatever you like
to call it, of some of my people. They won't go into any room in a
hotel with the number thirteen, and an artist won't make his or her
debut on the 13th; it is considered unlucky. I once recollect having
engaged Mme. Grisi and Signor Mario for a tour in England, commencing
the 13th of September. On sending them the programme, Mme. Grisi's
attention was drawn to the 'thirteenth;' She thereupon wrote a very
kind letter stating that nothing could induce her to appear on the
'thirteenth;' but to show there was nothing mean about her, she would
rather commence it on the 'twelfth,' although her pay was to commence
on the 'thirteenth.' I amended her programme and commenced on the
'twelfth,' but as that date happened to be a Friday it was again
returned to me with a most amiable letter, which I still preserve,
in which she stated again that there was nothing mean about the
alteration, as she would be the only loser; she therefore desired me
to commence it on the 'eleventh,' when both she and Signor Mario
would sing without salary until the proper date of the commencement of
the contract. One of the artists went to Tiffany's the other day to
purchase a bangle. The price was $13. 'Won't you take less?' 'No.' And
would you believe it, she paid $14 sooner than pay $13."

We regained the managerial sanctum.

"Here is more of it," cried the impresario, "a letter from Campanini.
I'll read it to you. 'Dear Mr. Mapleson: I am very ill, and cannot
possibly sing to-night unless you send me--some tickets for family
circle, balcony, parquette, and general circle. Campanini.'"

Here the colonel was summoned to hear a young lady sing--an amateur who
aspired to the vocal majesty of grand opera. Upon his return, after the
lapse of a few minutes, I asked:--

"What opera pays the best, colonel?"

"Oh, there are a dozen trumps."

"Is not 'Carmen' one of them?"

"Yes, 'Carmen' has been one of my best successes."

In conclusion, Colonel Mapleson said:--

"I am nervous as to the future, as nearly every coming artist has the
misfortune to be American."

"Misfortune, colonel?"

"Yes. I use the word advisedly. Albani, Valleria, Adini, Van Zandt and
Durand, one of the best dramatic prima donne on the stage, who, by the
way, has gone to sing at the Grand Opera in Paris instead of coming
here, and Emma Novada, a new prima--Candidus, the tenor, too; all the
coming talent is American."

The salaries paid prima donne are very high. As far back as 1870, Mme.
Patti was paid $50,000 a year, besides being given numerous presents
by the Emperor of Russia. Last winter Mr. Henry E. Abbey paid Mme.
Patti at the rate of eight times the imperial salary, giving the diva
$4,000 for each concert she sang in, and she sang two in each week.
Albani was paid at the same rate as Patti in Russia. Nilsson, before
her retirement, got $1,000 a night in the provinces. Now, that she is
to return to the stage and come to America, she will be paid probably
as handsomely as Patti was. Nearly all the foreign singers and artists
have London agents through whom American impresarios carry on their
negotiations. Gye is one of these agents and H. C. Jarrett, of London,
who accompanied Bernhardt, as her agent, and who represents Nilsson, is
another.

Singers and dramatic people, too, are fond of diamonds. They have
thousands of dollars' worth of them; still they believe in investing in
them because they represent so much value in such little space. Sarah
Bernhardt had a wonderful wealth of these precious stones, and Neilson
was well provided with them. B. Spyer, the St. Louis diamond merchant,
with whom theatrical and operatic people deal almost exclusively, and
who enjoys the patronage of nearly all foreign artists who visit this
country, told me a very funny story about the first diamond he sold
Christine Nilsson. He had a splendid stone worth $4,000, and taking it
with him he went up to the Lindell Hotel, and knocking at Nilsson's
door was told to come in. He opened the door and there on a sofa the
great songstress was reclining covered with an old calico gown. He
showed her the stone, but she did not want to buy it and would not.
Nilsson having left the room for a while, Mr. Spyer approached the
dressing-maid, who was an old lady, and showing her a handsome diamond
ring told her he would give it to her if she used her influence to
induce her mistress to buy the $4,000 diamond. She said she would,
and while they were talking in walked a gray-haired old gentleman in
common clothes who looked like a servant, and whom Mr. Spyer engaged in
conversation. He told the old man of his scheme with the dressing-maid,
when the latter said, "Tut, tut, she can do nothing for you; she's got
no influence."

"Then can you do anything?" Mr. Spyer asked. "I'll make it all right if
you help me to sell the Madame that stone."

"Well," said the old gentleman, "I want a pair of ear-rings for my
daughters, who are in England."

"All right" was the diamond broker's answer; "you use your influence
and if I make the sale you shall have the ear-rings."

The old gentleman said he would do what he could. Mr. Spyer sold the
diamond to Nilsson and in a few days the old gentleman walked into
his store and after looking over the stock selected a $650 pair of
ear-rings. Spyer was surprised, but his surprise was greater when he
learned that the person he had taken for a servant was none other than
H. C. Jarrett, then and now Nilsson's confidential agent.

Mr. Spyer told me another story which I may as well bring in here, of
how he sold a ring to Adelaide Neilson for $3,000. Mr. Lee, who was
then Neilson's husband, was conducting the negotiations, and told Mr.
Spyer that he was going to buy some property in Chicago, and would
receive a telegram in regard to it, to know whether his offer for
the property had been accepted or rejected. If he did not receive a
telegram by twelve o'clock noon the following day, he would buy the
ring. At noon next day Mr. Spyer was at the Southern Hotel, where Mr.
Lee and his wife were stopping. He asked the clerk if he had seen Mr.
Lee around the rotunda, and the clerk answered no, that he himself was
looking for Mr. Lee, as he had a telegram for him.

"Well now, I'll tell you what to do--" mentioning his first name, for
the diamond merchant knew the clerk, "you'll oblige me very much and do
me a great favor if you'll keep that telegram down here until I go up
stairs and see Lee."

The clerk agreed; Mr. Spyer went up stairs and sold his diamond ring.
Himself and Mr. Lee walked down the stairs to get a drink. The clerk
called Mr. Lee, handed him the telegram and he opened and read it.

"By Jove, Barney," he said, holding out the telegram, "if I'd gotten
this ten minutes sooner I wouldn't have bought that ring."

"Well, I'm glad you didn't get it," Mr. Spyer responded. "Let's go and
have some Apollinarius."

One morning during that same week Mr. Spyer was sitting in the store
when Neilson came in alone and bought a diamond ring for $175, paid
for it and told the merchant to say nothing to Philip about it. There
was nothing so very extraordinary in this; but when Mr. Lee came in an
hour afterwards and picked out a ring about the same value and paying
for it enjoined Mr. Spyer to say nothing to Adelaide about it, he was
surprised at the remarkableness of the coincidence. He never heard
anything more about either of the rings.




CHAPTER XXVI.

THE MINSTREL BOYS.


The idea of negro minstrelsy in its present shape originated forty
years ago with Dan Emmett, Frank Brower, Billy Whitlock and Dick
Pelham. This happy quartette organized the Virginia Serenaders in 1841,
giving their first performance on December 30th. An idea of the "first
part" furnished by that combination was given last season, when Dan
Emmett himself appeared with three others in an act in which the old
jaw-bone figured, and the other instruments were banjo, tambourine and
fiddle. Fifty years before the time of the Virginia Serenaders a Mr.
Grawpner is said to have blacked up at the old Federal Street Theatre,
in Boston, where he sang an Ethiopian song in character. The first of
the negro melodies that have been preserved is "Back Side of Albany
Stands Lake Champlain." It was sung by Pot-Pie Herbert, a Western actor
who flourished long before the days of "Jim Crow," Rice, or Daddy Rice,
as they called him. Herbert's song was as follows:--

    Back side Albany stan' Lake Champlain,
      Little pond half full o' water;
    Platteburg dar too, close 'pon de main,
      Town small, he grow bigger berearter.

    On Lake Champlain Uncle Sam set he boat
      An' Massa McDonough he sail 'em;
    While General Macomb make Platteburg he home
      Wid de army whose courage nebber fail 'em.

Daddy Rice was employed in Ludlow & Smith's Southern theatre as
property-man, lamp-lighter, stage carpenter, etc., and he made no
reputation until he began jumping Jim Crow, in Louisville, Kentucky, in
1829, after which he became famous and made a fortune by singing his
song in this country and England. The original "Jim Crow," with the
walk and dress, were copied from an old Louisville negro, and ran along
regardless of rhythm in this manner:--

        I went down to creek, I went down a fishing,
        I axed the old miller to gim me chaw tobacker
        To treat old Aunt Hanner.

    CHORUS. First on de heel tap, den on de toe,
            Ebery time I wheel about I jump Jim Crow.

        I goes down to de branch to pester old miller,
        I wants a little light wood;
        I belongs to Capt. Hawkins and don't care a d--n.

    CHORUS. First on de heel tap, etc.

George Nichols, a circus clown, claims to have been the first negro
minstrel, and some award this distinction to George Washington Dixon,
who disputes the authorship of "Zip Coon" with Nichols, who first sang
"Clare De Kitchen," which he arranged from hearing it sung by negroes
on the Mississippi. Bill Keller, a low comedian, was the original "Coal
Black Rose," in 1830, John Clements having composed the music. Barney
Burns, a job actor and low comedian, first sang "My Long Tail Blue,"
and "Such a Getting up Stairs," written and composed by Joe Blackburn.
These were all about Daddy Rice's time, and nearly all the songs of
the day were constructed in the style of "Jim Crow." They were taken
from hearing the Southern darkies singing in the evenings on their
plantations.

In the year following the organization of the Virginia Serenaders
the original Christy Minstrels were organized by E. P. Christy, in
Buffalo. The troupe consisted of E. P. Christy, Geo. Christy (whose
real name was Harrington), L. Durand and T. Vaughn. They first called
themselves the Virginia Minstrels, but changed to Christy Minstrels
in a short time, when Enon Dickerson and Zeke Bakers joined them. The
party continued to give concerts up to July, 1850, when E. P. Christy
died and was buried in Greenwood. George Christy had withdrawn in
October, 1853, owing to some dispute between himself and E. P. His
salary during the two years and six months preceding the withdrawal
amounted to $19,680. The troupe gave two thousand seven hundred and
ninety-two concerts during its existence, took in $317,589.30, paid
out $156,715.70, and had a profit left of $160,873.60. The profits of
the first year did not exceed $300. Companies were now springing up
everywhere, and so great was the rage for ministrelsy that the troupes
were obliged to give morning concerts. The entertainment has been
one of our public amusements ever since, and a good company of burnt
cork artists can command a good house anywhere. Following the spirit
of enterprise of the age and the tendency to gigantic proportions in
everything, minstrelsy has developed into Mastodon Megatherion and
other mammoth organizations. End men by the dozens, song and dance men
by the scores and no less than forty ("count 'em") artists now amuse
the public that was satisfied with four in '41. By the way it was in
this year on July 4th, that bones were first played before an audience,
the player being Frank Brower of the Virginia Serenaders.

[Illustration: GEORGE CHRISTY.]

George Christy, who was the most celebrated Ethiopian performer the
world knew in those days was born in Palmyra, State of New York,
November 3, 1827. He was sent to school at an early age, and although
he excelled in all the branches of education peculiar to boys of his
age, after school hours the master often found him at the head of a
party of boys whom he had assembled together for the purpose of giving
theatrical entertainments, or, as they called it, a _show_. George
was, as he ever has been, the very head and front of this species of
amusement; and subsequently, under the auspices of E. P. Christy,
made his debut as Julius, the bone-player, in the spring of 1839,
and afterwards attained to the very first rank in his profession. He
survived his namesake many years.

The only fault to be found with the minstrelsy of the present day is
the coarseness that pervades many of the sketches and crops out in the
songs and funny sayings. The old-time negro character has been sunk
out of sight and the vulgarity of the gamin has taken the place of the
innocent comicalities that were in vogue forty years ago. It is true
that the negro character has undergone a change and that the black man
now vies with his white brother in everything that is low and vicious;
but the criticism still holds good that negro minstrelsy is not what
it was or what it ought to be, and that no matter how grand its
proportions may be made by enterprising managers the many features that
make it objectionable to fastidious people must be pruned off before
it can be said to be deserving that full recognition which the public
always accords to whatever is good in the amusement line.

The negro minstrel is an institution entirely outside of the pale
of commonplace people. He talks differently from other people, acts
differently, dresses differently. A "gang of nigger singers" can be
identified three blocks away by an ordinary observer of human nature.
They have a fondness for high and shining silk hats that are reflected
in the glaze of their patent-leather, low-quarter shoes every time
they pull up their light trousers to look at their red or clocked silk
stockings. Their clothes are of a minstrelsy cut, and like the party
who came to town with rings on her fingers and rings on her toes,
they must have their fingers covered with amethysts or cluster-diamond
ornaments, and they rarely ever fail to display a "spark" in their
gorgeous shirt fronts. They are "mashers" of the most pronounced type
on the stage and off, and just as soon as they take possession of a
small town, it is safe to say that all the feminine hearts lying around
loose will be corraled within twenty-four hours of their arrival. They
are as generous now as they were years ago, and few of them save a cent
for the frequently mentioned rainy day. The very best of them have
died in poverty, and found graves only through the charity of friends.
Johnny Diamond and his partner, Jim Sanford, the former of whom helped
Barnum in his first steps along the road to fortune, both died in the
same Philadelphia alms-house. They had commanded big salaries, but
dressed flashily and lived fast, and when the rainy day came they had
to run for shelter to a public charity. Very few performers who die in
poverty now are allowed to seek any other than the charity of their
professional brethren. The Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks
takes care of the unfortunates, assisting them generously while living
and giving them decent burial at their death.

As I said, the minstrel boy is an irresistible "masher." His particular
weakness is women, with wine often only a little behind. He lives at
as rapid a rate as his salary will allow, and turns night into day by
"taking in the town" after the performance. They frequently get into
scandalous history owing to the promiscuousness with which they pick up
with petticoats, and their amours get them into great trouble. Women
seem to have a lavish fondness for the end-man, and many of them have
left husband, children, and home to follow the fortunes of a fickle
minstrel. The story of the Chicago gambler's wife who ran off with
Billy Arlington is still fresh in the minds of the people of the city
by the lake, and still fresher is that of the St. Louis _demi-mondaine_
who sold out her house to be always near her "Johnny," who, I think,
was one of the Big Four.

[Illustration: "YOU ARE THE SORT OF A MAN I LIKE."]

A mash that created a sensation, though, was one that developed in
a New York Bowery theatre, one night, when a young woman elegantly
attired jumped out of a private box, and embracing a performer who was
just finishing a banjo solo, shouted in a voice that was clear and
loud, "You're the sort of a man I like!" The audience cheered lustily
and the young woman accepted the applause with a courtesy, while the
banjoist staggered into the wings, too much amazed to be flattered. A
young man from whose side the lady had made her leap upon the stage,
succeeded with some difficulty in coaxing her back into the box and
the show went on. The pair had been dining and wining together, and
the young gentleman had not been as attentive to his companion as
she thought proper. So she had chosen the original method of at once
rebuking and shaming him. She succeeded. He did not dare to look at
another woman on or off the stage again until the curtain fell.

Those who have never witnessed the rehearsal of a minstrel company can
have but a very faint idea of the amount of worry and vexation to which
the manager is subjected before he becomes satisfied that the company
has mastered the work so that it is in a condition to present to the
public. The scene at a dramatic rehearsal is the scene of perfect peace
and harmony compared with that of a minstrel company. The difference
is caused by the fact that dramatic performers study their lines and
business carefully, and have the idea constantly before them that
they must adhere to the text and the author's ideas closely, while
minstrels, or "nigger singers" as they are called by members of the
profession, work with only one end in view, and that is, to be funny.
A minstrel having a speech of a dozen lines will make it twenty-five
times and never make it twice alike. Every time he speaks it he will
drop out something or insert something which the author did not intend
to be there. The result is that a manager superintending a rehearsal is
in hot water, figuratively, all the time. If he storms and swears at
the performers, he only makes matters worse, and, therefore while he
is inwardly boiling with vexation he must retain a calm exterior and
appear as smiling as a June morning. There have been well authenticated
cases where minstrel managers have been driven to strong drink by the
intense strain upon their mental faculties occasioned by superintending
rehearsals. These cases, however, are rare.

Through the courtesy of Manager J. A. Gulick, I had the pleasure, last
spring, of witnessing a rehearsal of Haverly's Mastodon Minstrels. I
took a seat under the shadow of the balcony to watch developments, and
passed ten or fifteen minutes in inspecting the dull, dismal aspect of
the house. Everything was quiet and oppressively sombre. Occasionally
a scrub woman who was working a broom in the dress circle would bark
one of her shins against one of the iron chair-frames and sit down and
howl in a subdued tone, but beyond this there was nothing to break the
stillness until the members of the company began to arrive. Presently
the orchestra came in and began to tune up their instruments to a
condition proper for the promulgation of sweet strains, and then the
comedians and singers came sauntering in on the stage. Apparently, the
first duty of each and every one of them upon getting out of the wings,
was to execute a shuffle, cock his hat over his left eye and swagger
off up the stage with a satisfied smile. Each having been successfully
delivered of his matutinal shuffle, and having satisfied himself that
he hadn't contracted the "string-halt" during the night, all seated
themselves and awaited the appearance of the manager. Divested of
their burnt cork and stage toggery, the company looked more like a
collection of well-to-do young men in the commercial walks of life than
minstrel performers. All looked as if they had passed a comfortable
night, and had not indulged in those revels which are erroneously
supposed to be inseparable from the life of a minstrel. Consequently I
was bound to conclude that they had said their prayers at 11:30, and
at midnight were snoring the snores of the innocent and blessed. The
only member of the company who looked as if he might have gone wrong
on the previous night was Frank Cushman. His right eye was bloodshot,
and he had a protuberance on his forehead over the optic such as might
be raised by the kick of a mule. His condition was afterward explained
by the fact that in attempting to make a "funny fall" in "Uncle Tom's
Cabin," on the night previous, he had made a miscue and had received a
genuine fall, striking on his head. Suspicion was therefore allayed,
and I became satisfied that Cushman, too, had said his prayers and had
gone regularly to bed unloaded.

Promptly at eleven o'clock, the hour set for rehearsal, Manager Gulick
arrived and proceeded at once to business by delivering an address to
the orchestra leader:--

"Now we don't want any break in this first part finish to-night.
You want to make that first chorus very forte and then work it off
gradually very piano. Then when they all come on you want a short wait
and then a crash--see?"

The leader nodded to indicate that he saw.

"Then," resumed Mr. Gulick, "when you hear the pistol fired, work in
that te um iddle de te um ah tiddle um tiddle tah--see?"

The leader again saw, and the manager continued:

"Then when you come to 'The girl I left behind me,' put in la la tum
liddle la la tum liddle ah--see?"

But without waiting to see whether the leader saw or not the manager
turned to the company with: "Now, boys, get down to business and we'll
rehearse that first part finish."

[Illustration: JIM CROW.]

Then there was a rush of the "40-count 'em" down to the foot-lights,
and everybody began to talk. Each man struck a different subject and a
different key apparently, and the finish appeared to be so thoroughly
jumbled up that it seemed an impossible task to straighten it out
again. But the performance appeared to be an adjunct of the rehearsal,
for when it was finished Mr. Gulick took his seat at the foot-lights,
while the company arranged itself in the usual semi-circle, with E. M.
Kayne, the interlocutor, in the centre. More instructions were given by
the manager, when a young man rushed in and performed the pantomime of
handing Mr. Kayne a telegram, which the latter pantomimically opened
and calmly announced that he had just received news that he had just
won the prize of $50,000 in the Kentucky State lottery. He didn't make
as much fuss over it as any other man would over finding a half-dollar
on the street. The news must have pleased him, for he remarked:--

"Boys, I'm in luck."

"What is it?" said Billy Rice.

"Fifty thousand dollar prize," replied Mr. Kayne.

"What did I tell you?" said Rice.

"Take us out and treat us," said Cushman.

"Didn't I tell you I was a Mascot," said another. They all called
for lemonade, and Mr. Kayne compromised the matter by agreeing to
take them all to Europe on a pleasure trip if they would pack their
trunks in five minutes. A chorus was then sung and the trunks were
announced packed. Jimmy Fox then came forward and announced that he
was captain of the Pinafore. The other members of the company must
have been looking for him, for they shot him dead with a vociferous
"bang!" and then proceeded to sing "Glory Hallelujah," over his corpse.
This brought him to life again and he was readmitted to the excursion
party. One of the vocalists then sang "Old Folks at Home," and at its
conclusion Mr. Kayne asked if there was no one else to whom they wished
to say "good-by," but all responded, "No, not one."

"Yes, there is," said Mr. Kayne, and the orchestra opened with "The
Girl I Left Behind Me."

The rehearsal was interspersed with very sweet little melodies, which
redeemed such verses as this:

    Our trunks are packed and our passage is paid,
      Sail o'er the ocean blue;
    Of the briny wave we're not afraid,
      Sail o'er the ocean blue.

Then Cushman sang:--

    Oh, fare you well, St. Louis girls,
    Fare you well for awhile;
    We'll sail away in the month of May
    And come back in July.

Rice retaliated with:--

    Fare you well, you dandy coons,
    We'll show you something grand;
    We'll sail away o'er the ocean blue,
    Till we reach the promised land.

There was nothing strikingly classical about the words, but the melody
was charming, and covered them with a charitable cloak.

The first part finish having been rehearsed, Manager Gulick discovered
some flaws in it and ordered it to be done over again. On hearing this
the man at the bass viol looked up piteously at Billy Rice and asked:--

"Are we going through it again?"

"Of course," replied Rice; "do you want to rest all the time?"

This question was not answered and the bass viol dropped into a seat
apparently completely discouraged. The piece was rehearsed, not once
only, but half a dozen times, and when it was pronounced all right the
bass viol gave a sigh of relief that shook the building.

Several songs were then rehearsed, during which everybody was busy. At
one side of the stage the quartette was singing, Cushman was practising
an end song, the orchestra was at work on an overture, three or four
men were brushing up on a farce, two song-and-dance men were inventing
new steps, and Charley Dockstader was reading the _Clipper_. It was
an exceedingly lively scene, and there was noise enough to wake the
dead. Vocal and instrumental music fought a pitched battle, while the
dancers hammered the stage with their feet as if by way of applause.
A boiler-shop is a haven of rest beside a minstrel rehearsal at this
stage.

The rehearsal lasted nearly two hours without a rest, and was as
utterly unlike a minstrel performance as can well be imagined. There
was nothing particularly amusing in it except its oddity, and yet when
it was presented with black faces and varied costumes it caused roar
upon roar of the heartiest laughter, because those who saw it then had
not seen how the performance was constructed.




CHAPTER XXVII.

PANTOMIME.


There are two kinds of clowns familiar to people who patronize
amusements--the clown who juggles old jokes in the circus ring, and the
clown whose only language is that of facial expression, and whose grins
and grimaces together with his extraordinary antics and white face are
more acceptable to and interpretable by childhood than the ancient and
petrified humorisms of his brother laugh-maker of the sawdust circle.
There is no circus clown in the world could stretch the heart-strings
of an audience as far and hold them there longer than George L. Fox,
the king of pantomimic merry-makers. His was a face readable as the
pages of a book printed in good large type, and the wonderful swift
changes that came over it were like fleecy clouds and sunshine chasing
each other across a summer sky. Poor Fox, who sent a thrill of joy into
the hearts of thousands of little folks and caused their rosy lips
to over-bubble with silvery laughter, his was a hard, an undeserved
fate--death in a madhouse, without a glint of reason to light him
on his journey across the dark river. He has left no successor more
worthy of his place than George H. Adams, whose talent obtained him
the recognition of Adam Forepaugh, the showman, with whom he is now in
partnership. Frazier and clowns of minor merit fill the rest of the
places, but Adams is at the top of the heap, and may be fitly termed
the Grimaldi of to-day.

[Illustration: GEORGE H. ADAMS IN HUMPTY DUMPTY.]

It is pleasant to visit a theatre during the progress of a pantomime.
The house is filled with old and young in equal proportions, or if
there is any preponderence it is on the side of the little folks,
who clamber up on the backs of chairs and laugh freely and sweetly
as the birds in the forest sing, every time they catch sight of the
chalked head of the clown and the gray tuft standing like a turret
above poor old Pantaloon's wig. And the old people laugh all the
heartier because the innocent young people have their hearts and
mouths filled with joy. The pantomime may be "Humpty Dumpty" or "The
Magic Flute" or "The Merry Miller"--call it by whatever name you will,
an intense interest is taken in it, and new enjoyment is found in
every performance. The tricks are the same, the mechanical effects
identical with those of every other pantomime you may have seen, and
even the specialty sketches that divide the acts of the dumb show seem
to be of very close kindred with those of former attractions of this
kind. Still everybody enjoys the fun just as many people laugh at the
"chestnuts"--_vulgariter_, old jokes--of the man in motley attire, who
tries to make the patrons of the circus feel happy.

It makes no difference to the miniature men and women who are Humpty
Dumpty's best friends and admirers, how the mechanical effects of a
pantomime are produced. They do not care much to know that the pig
Humpty Dumpty and Pantaloon stretch across the width of the stage in an
endeavor to tear it from each other, has a rubber body; that the bricks
the clown throws at everybody are only paper boxes; that the trick pump
is worked from the side scenes with a string; that the clothes which
suddenly, and as if by some invisible influence, vanish into the sides
of houses or up through windows have light but strong black thread,
which the little ones cannot see at a distance, attached to them; the
big policeman is to them a stern and gigantic reality; and it affords
them more fun to imagine every time Humpty throws or makes a blow at
anybody, that the stinging sound is a sure indication that his aim was
well taken--they do not know that the sound as of receiving a blow is
the result of slapping the hands together. All the simple illusions of
the scene and of the action are to them actual facts, and they appear
all the more ridiculous and are all the more effective on this account.
When Humpty Dumpty dives through the side of a house, disappearing
behind, there are men in waiting to catch him, and when he sits down to
read his newspaper and the candle begins to grow beyond his reach, then
falling as he attempts to go higher with a sudden bang, and the clown
comes tumbling down after it as Jill did after Jack when they went up
the hill for the bucket of beer, few of the big or little people know
that the candle runs down through one of the legs of the table and is
all wood except the waxen bit at the top. All these little mysteries
have their charms for the years of childhood, and in no country are the
pleasures of the pantomime so fully recognized as in England, where
on Boxing Night--the 26th of December--children crowd the theatres to
witness the Christmas pantomime. In some theatres here the custom of
providing pantomime for the Christmas holidays is adhered to, but as
there are not enough Grimaldis or Foxes or Adamses or Fraziers to go
around, the supply being very limited, we cannot compete with England
in this respect.

As Adams is the only pantomimist who can lay any claim to the mantle
of George L. Fox--if clowns can be said to have mantles--a short
biography may not be out of place. He is twenty-eight years old, is a
native of England, and is the eldest son of Charles H. Adams, one of
the best Pantaloons in the country. He comes from a family of circus
people, being a descendant of the famous Cookes, riders and clowns,
and is a cousin of W. W. Cole, the circus manager. He was apprenticed
to the manager of Astley's, in London, when he was six years of age,
and remained there eight years. After appearing as clown with a circus
in Denmark, he came to America, and for several years travelled with
different circuses. His first appearance as clown in the pantomime was
in Brooklyn, New York, in 1872, under the management of Tim Donnelly,
who gave a pantomime every year during the Christmas holidays. His
father was the stage manager for Donnelly, and suggested to George the
idea of playing clown. George refused at first, but finally at his
father's earnest solicitation decided to go on. He made an unmistakable
hit, and from that time deserted the sawdust arena and adopted the
stage. After several successful seasons with Nick Roberts and Tony
Denier he last season accepted an offer of partnership with Adam
Forepaugh to run a show under his own name.

In the last Christmas number of the London _Graphic_ I found the
following excellent article on "Boxing Night" as the little folks of
London enjoy it: "The very first night of anticipated pleasure has
come to nine-tenths of the little ones who gaze upon the scene in
silent wonder and astonishment. Imagination in its wildest dreams
never pictured anything so wonderful as this. There have been little
theatricals at home, plays in the back drawing-room; some fairy tale
has been enacted for which kind sisters have supplied the wardrobe,
whilst mamma has presided over the piano orchestra. It was good fun
to crawl across the mimic stage in a hearth-rug, pretending to be
a wolf or bear, and to hear the laughter of kind friends in front;
but all that home amusement, the curiosity and contrivances, the
songs and dances were, indeed, child's play when compared to a real
theatre on Boxing Night. What importance is given to the child by
being considered old enough to sit up so late as this; what a sense of
mystery and wonderment to be driven through the lighted streets; to
see the decorated shops set out with Christmas presents and New Year's
gifts; and to behold for the first time, the bright electric light
on the bridges and embankment! But this is far better than all, and
only a very little removed from fairyland. How the myriad lights in
the great chandeliers glisten and sparkle, and the stage foot-lights
dazzle; how splendidly the orchestra seems to play; and hark! the
boys in the gallery are taking up the tune, and singing together
with wonderful swing and precision. One comic song and street tune
follows another; the band suggests and the young musicians take it up
with a will. Just now they had been a pelting of the pit with orange
peel--all in good fun, of course. The lads in their shirt sleeves
had whistled and screamed, and saluted friends in distant corners
of the gallery; but now all this horse play is quieted by music and
melody. It is Boxing Night, and there must be patriotism as well as
pleasure. 'Rule Britannia,' 'God bless the Prince of Wales,' and
'God Save the Queen,' are sung from thousands of lusty throats, and
all the audience rise to their feet, waving hats and handkerchiefs.
Loyalty is as necessary as love at Christmas-time. And what has that
good old wizard Blanchard prepared for the happy children? He must be
as immortal as Father Christmas, and certainly is quite as popular.
He will be the guide up the rocks of romance, and away to the fields
of fairyland. He will lead his happy followers amidst ogres and
giants and elves and fays, to wizard castles and enchanted dells;
now you will be at the bottom of the sea, where lovely queens wave
sea-weed wands; and now on land amidst the yellow corn-fields and the
bluebell lanes. There will be song and dance, and the madcap pranks of
thousands of children, liliputian armies and glittering armor, poetry
and processions, hobby-horses and the dear old Clown and Harlequin and
Pantaloon supporting 'airy fairy' Columbine, if they would only ring
that prompter's bell and pull up that tantalizing curtain. The noise is
hushed, the music stops, the overture is over--but wait.

"What are they doing behind the curtain? There are beating hearts also
in the manufactory of pleasure. Christmas-time means food and raiment
to the great majority of those who are awaiting the prompter's signal.
They have come from courts and alleys, from cold, comfortless rooms,
from care and poverty, from watching and from want, to this great busy
hive that uncharitable people abuse and ridicule. Times have been bad,
the winter has advanced too soon, wages have been slack; but all will
be mended now that Christmas has come again. Hearts beat lightly under
the prince's tunics and the dancers' bodices, for every mickle makes
a muckle, and there is work here, from the proud position of head of
the Amazonian army to the humble individual who earns a shilling a
night for throwing carrots in a crowd and returning slaps in a rally.
And the training and discipline of the rehearsals up to this anxious
moment have not been without their advantage. Punctuality, silence,
order, and sobriety are the watchwords here. There have been no idling,
dawdling, and philandering, as many silly people imagine. Even the
little children have learned something, perhaps their letters, perhaps
the art of singing in unison, certainly the merit of being smart and
useful. But now it is the great examination day. The lessons are over,
and the result is soon to be known. What a wild fantastic scene it
is--a very carnival of costumes. Fairies and hop-o'-my-thumbs, monkeys,
and all the miscellaneous mixture of the menagerie, gorgeous knights in
armor and spangled syrens, Titania and her train, pasteboard chariots,
wands and crystal fountains, fruits and forest trees, mothers,
dressers, carpenters, and costermongers for the crowd, all mixed up in
apparent confusion, but in reality as well drilled and disciplined as
an army prepared for action. All belong to some separate department or
division; there is a leader for every squad, who is responsible for
his men, and if anything goes wrong a prompt fine is a very wholesome
punishment. It has been weary work during the last few rehearsals, and
certain scenes have had to be repeated again and again. The testing of
the scenery has delayed the action, and it has been late enough before
these busy bees have got to bed. But the excitement of the moment gives
new vitality. The night has come, and everyone is bound to do his or
her best. Everything is smart and new, and the girls and children are
proud of their costumes, in which they strut about admiringly. The
stage manager has recovered his amiability, and calls everyone "my
dear." A rapid, business-like glance is cast over the various scenes
to see that everything is straight and ship-shape; the reports come up
from the various departments to say there are no defaulters. The gas
man is at his post, and the limelight man at his station. The ballet
master, with his flag in hand, is standing ready on his stool. Ready?
Yes, sir! is the answer. Up go the foot-lights with a flare, a bell
rings, the curtain rises, and the happy people before and behind the
Christmas curtain meet."




CHAPTER XXVIII.

VARIETY DIVES AND CONCERT SALOONS.


Outside of the legitimate theatres there is a large variety of places
of amusement--that is, they are called places of amusement, but the
fumes of vile tobacco, the odor of stale beer, the fiery breath of
cheap whiskey, the sight of filthy women and filthier men, and the most
excruciating and torturesome kind of music, all combine to make the
resort anything but pleasant and the while the incidents that attract
the visitor's attention are anything but amusing. There is, of course,
no complaint of this sort to urge against the first-class variety
theatres. These cater in a modest way to a low standard of intellect,
but usually their programmes are chaste enough, and unless a person
has an aversion to having beer spattered over his clothes by unhandy
waiters while ministering to the thirsty wants of a neighbor in the
same row, or objects to the attention of the gay girls who open wine in
the private boxes and flirt with the people in the parquette, he will
find a first-class variety show as pleasant a place as a good, long,
mixed programme with the Glue Brothers in song and dance at one end,
the Irish Triplets, in "select vocalisms and charming terpsichorean
evolutions," in the middle, and a lugubrious sketch at the other end
can make it. By some mysterious law known only to variety performers,
the variety stage only about once in a century produces anything new
or anything attractive. In the good old days of the ballet there
was drawing power in the display of shapely limbs and the graceful
music-of-motion like manner in which the girls tip-toed or pirouetted
across the stage; or when the variety theatre was as much the home
of spectacle as the legitimate houses pretended to be, and on the
Vaudeville stage scenes were presented that belonged to the same class
of labyrinthine scenery and profuse female beauty that the "Black
Crook" and "The Green Huntsman" were the representatives of. When
spectacles were the rage and the fencing scene in the "Black Crook"
would set the boys at the top of the house wild with joy, the variety
theatre had among the bright stars of its stage actors and actresses
who are now among the most popular, and certainly among the heaviest
money-makers, who appear in the legitimate houses.

[Illustration: FENCING SCENE IN BLACK CROOK.]

Joe Emmett graduated from the variety theatre. Gus. Williams was a
shining light on the same stage. J. C. Williamson was a variety artist.
Geo. D. Knight did "Dutch business" in the minor theatres before he
got to be famous as _Otto_. I recollect having seen Knight play _Rip
Van Winkle_ in Deagle's old variety theatre on Sixth Street, in St.
Louis, and he played it well--not like Jefferson, of course, but it
was his first attempt at the part, and if Jefferson did any better the
first time he must not have improved very much since. This was twelve
years ago. Mrs. Geo. Knight (Sophie Worrell) danced on a concert saloon
stage in San Francisco. So did Lotta, and so did Mrs. Williamson. Den
Thompson, whose _Joshua Whitcomb_ is a perfect picture of the New
England farmer, first tried this same character in the variety theatre,
and Neil Burgess and the "Widow Bedotte" were first introduced to the
public as the tail-end of a nigger-singing and specialty programme.

[Illustration: MAD. THEO.]

Those were the palmy days of the variety show before negro ministrelsy
had grown to its present enormous proportions and before plays were
written so as to take in a whole variety entertainment, and under the
disguise of comedy or farce or burlesque foist a lot of specialty
people from a first-class stage upon an intelligent audience. The
musico-mirthful pieces that began to blossom forth in 1880 made a
heavy demand upon the resources of the variety houses, and within a
year threaten to leave them entirely at the mercy of "ham-fats," as the
lower order of this kind of talent is designated. "Fun on the Bristol"
and fifty more flimsy patchworks of the same kind were sailing around
the country in a short time, and every "team" that had a specialty
act of fifteen minutes duration wanted a play built to fit it and
went around telling friends that they guessed they'd go starring next
season. A great many of them did not go, but a great many others did.
The worst were left behind, and the result was poor variety programmes
and in consequence poor patronage for them.

[Illustration: GUS WILLIAMS AS JNO. MISHLER.]

I picked up a programme the other day, belonging to what was once a
first-class house, and is so still in all except the standard of the
performance, and found such old and worn-out features as a lightning
crayon artist and a lightning change artist, both of which are so
threadbare that even a ten-cent theatre wouldn't care to give them
stage room. It is an easy step from this kind of thing down to the
dives. The latter, as an institution, flourishes wider and pays better
than places of less savory notoriety. There is such a charm to vice
that even the saintly do not hesitate to linger in its neighborhood a
while, and take a sniff of its pungent atmosphere. Anybody who drops
into Harry Hill's place in New York, any night in the week, will see
some remarkably churchy looking gentlemen standing around studying
the aspect of the establishment and dwelling with melting eyes upon
some of the painted faces that look up from the beer tables ranged at
one side of the hall. A correspondent who visited Harry Hill's very
recently, gives the following description of the place, its proprietor
and its frequenters: "Harry Hill's grows bigger as its notoriety
extends with years, but it never changes. It is not a bar-room, not
a concert saloon, not a pretty waiter-girl establishment, and not a
free-and-easy. None of these terms describe it, for it is all those
things in one and at once--big second-story room, containing a bar,
a theatrical stage, which can quickly be made into a prize ring, a
bare space for dancing, tables, seats, a balcony, and a few so-called
wine-rooms. There are always as many women as men in the place. The
women are admitted by a private entrance, free. Men pass through a
neglected bar-room on the ground floor at a cost of twenty-five cents.
Prosperity has added a mansard roof and a clock-tower to the original
structure, and Hill has taken in an adjoining building, and turned its
best apartments into billiard and pool-rooms and a shooting gallery.
Let us go in through the bar-room, up a winding stair and suddenly
into the glare and bustle and merriment of the so-called theatre. On
the stage two women are exhibiting as pugilists, with boxing-gloves,
high-necked short dresses, soft, fat, bare arms, and a futile effort to
look very much in earnest, and as if they did not realize how apparent
it was that their greatest effort was to avoid hurting one another's
breasts or bruising one another's faces.

"In the chairs around the tables are many men, and an equal number of
women. The men are mainly young, and a majority seem to be country
youths or store clerks. There are others evidently country men or
foreigners. The women wear street-dress, hats and all. They are
Americans, often of Irish or German extraction. As a rule they are
not pretty, but they are quiet and mannerly. They know the cast-iron
rules of the house--no loud or profane talking, no loud laughing, no
quarreling, "no loving." These are printed and hang on the walls, and
all who go there either know or speedily find out that the slightest
breach of them results in prompt expulsion from the house. All are
drinking, and many of the women are smoking big cigars or tiny
cigarettes. Other women, without hats or sacques, but wearing big white
aprons, serve as waiters and as bartenders.

"Harry Hill himself, a smooth-faced old man, broad, big and muscular,
who shares with Lester Wallack the secret of looking twenty years
younger than he is, sits at a table with a detective and a chief of
police from some suburb. Hill is always there, and is ever entertaining
distinguished strangers. Clergymen from the cities drop in at the
rate of one a night. The women, as they come and go, stop and salute
or speak with Hill. He knows them all, is kind to all, and is liked
by all. He has nothing to do with them or their affairs, however, his
place being merely their exchange, and their duty being merely to
behave while there. The boxers bow and retire, and a young woman, who
was a few minutes before at one of the tables with a broker, who was
opening champagne, now faces the foot-lights in a short silk skirt,
bare arms, bare head and red clogs. She sprinkles white sand on the
boards from a gilt cornucopia, the music of a piano and three violins
strike up, and she rattles her heels and toes through a clog dance. It
is a waltz tune that she is keeping time to, and a tall young woman of
extremely haughty mien and rich apparel seizes a shy and seedy little
product of the pavement and whirls her round and round in the bare
space on the floor. The lookers-on gather there, and a callow stripling
from the country, without previous notice or formality, grasps a
snubnosed, saucy-looking girl in the throng and joins the dancers.

"'Some of these girls 'as bin a-coming 'ere ten or fifteen years,' says
Harry Hill, 'and looks better to-day than others which left their 'omes
a 'alf year ago. Hit's hall hacordin' to 'ow they take to drink. Hif
they go too farst they're sure to go too far.'

"Do they reform? Well, Mr. Hill says there are so many notions of what
reform really is, that he can't say. Some of them reform and become
mistresses when they get a chance, and some of them reform and return
and reform again by spells. He points out one whom he calls Nellie,
and says she went away and was going to lead a strictly honest life,
disappeared for six months, and the other night came back again.

"I kept my eye on Nellie, and, needing no introduction, seized a chance
to talk with her.

"'I got married, and was as straight as a string for six months,' said
she; 'but I had misfortune, and had no other way to support myself but
to come back here.'

"'Husband leave you?'

"'He got caught cracking a dry goods store, and is up for two years.'"

The patrons of the variety "dives" are usually young men, clerks,
salesmen, and sometimes the trusted employee of a bank or broker's
office will get "mashed" upon one of the almost naked women who appear
upon the stage, and will thereafter be numbered among the patrons of
the resort. Those who have gone into the private boxes once and find
the girls obliging enough to sit on their knees and ask them to treat
will go there again if they can possibly get the fifty cents that is
asked as an admission fee.

Sometimes a party of really Christian men unfamiliar with city ways
will get into a variety dive by mistake, and what is more, into the
boxes. The glaring sign over the front of the house which simply
announces that the place is a theatre attracts them to the box-office.

"Say, Mister, what do you tax us to go in?" one of the party asks.

"Tickets are twenty-five, thirty-five and fifty cents," answers the
dapper little man in the box-office who looks as if he ought to be a
bar-keeper or a barber.

"Give us five of your half-a-dollar chairs," says the spokesman,
throwing down his money, and they are forthwith led to seats in the
private boxes, which are no more than long galleries walled in and
having two or three windows to which the occupants crowd when anything
interesting is going forward on the stage. As I have already said
these boxes are connected by doors with the stage and the serio-comic
vocalist who has a few minutes to spare will loiter in to strike
somebody for a drink.

"Say, baby, can't I have a wet?" one of the female wrestlers remarks as
she plumps herself down in her tights on the quivering knee of a weak
little fellow who appears young enough to be fond of molasses candy
yet, and throws her arms around his neck and hugs him to her flabby
breast violently enough to disarrange the black curly hair he had
slicked down at the barber shop just before he came in.

"A what?" he asks, trying to get his neck sufficiently released to be
at least comfortable.

"A drink, darling," and she hugs him again and begins playing with a
little curl over his forehead.

"Why, of course you can," is the overwhelmed young man's reply.

Now she looks fondly into his eyes and with the most affectionate
expression at her command asks: "And how about my partner, baby. Can't
she have a drink?"

"I suppose so," responds the victim; and there is a loud shouting at
the stage-door for "Ida," or somebody else, and Ida, knowing what she
is wanted for, hurries to the spot. In the meantime "Johnnie," the
waiter, has been summoned.

"Give me a port wine sangaree," says Ida's partner.

"And give me a stone fence" (cider and brandy), says Ida.

"And what are you going to drink, baby?" the wrestler sitting on his
knee asks.

"Give me glass of beer," says the "baby," in a tone sufficiently
disconsolate to suggest that he was afraid he might not have enough
money to pay for the treat.

[Illustration: "SHE TICKLED HIM UNDER THE CHIN."]

One night a party of saintly looking grangers from Indiana,--five of
them,--who appeared as if they were a delegation to some sort of a
religious convention, got into a Bowery dive by some mistake, but made
no mistake in remaining there. They got in early and it was late when
they left. The whole thing appeared novel, startling to them. They had
never before seen so much unstripped womanhood exposed to the naked
eye. They hired a cheap opera-glass from the peanut boy, and they
bought "pop" the whole night long. During the first part, when all the
girls and the "nigger" end-men sit in a circle and sing dismal songs
and deal out smutty jokes, the grangers were in a perfect ecstasy of
wonder and admiration for the shortness of the women's dresses and the
symmetry of their padded limbs; but when the first part was over and a
serio-comic singer came tripping out upon the stage without any dress
at all on--nothing but a bodice, trunks and flesh-colored tights--and
sang "Tickled Him Under the Chin," they were in a frenzy and did not
know what to do with their hands, or how to sit still, because the
singer kept throwing glances in the direction of their box. Then came
the supreme exaltation of their feelings; the serio-comic danced over
to the box as she sang, and actually tickled the most clerical member
of the quintette on his fat, white chin, while the four others looked
on in astonishment, and the audience fairly howled.

The grangers were "guyed" pitilessly by the audience, but they paid
little, if any, attention to it. As soon as the serio-comic had done
her "turn" she rushed for their box, and before long the five Hoosiers
were as happy as the lark when it trills its song to the morning.

[Illustration: M'LLE GENEVIEVE.]

The "dive" audiences are mixed in their character, as has been already
suggested, and the proximity of a well-dressed young man to a crowd of
hoodlums in jeans pants and braided coats often precipitates a row.
Scarcely a night passes in the flash variety shows that there is not
some trouble. A "bouncer" is connected with each establishment, whose
business it should be to quell disturbances, but who, like hot-headed
Irish policemen, do more towards increasing the dimensions of a row
than forty other men could do. It is bad policy to attempt open
criticism of the performers or performance in one of these dens. A hiss
will attract the attention of the bouncer, who will come down to the
sibilant offender and say:--

"Young man, do ye expect us to give ye Sary Burnhart an' Fannie
Divenpoort and Ed'in Booth fur twinty-five sints. Af ye don't loike the
show lave it, but af ye open yer mug ag'in, or say so much as 'Boo,'
I'll put ye fwhere ye'll have plinty toime to cool yersel' aff."

If the offender dares to argue the point the "bouncer" will catch him
by the neck, and then a struggle ensues, canes are flourished, the
audience rise to their feet, some of the girls run in fright from
the stage, and there is pandemonium in the place for ten or fifteen
minutes, by the end of which time the "bouncer" has taken his man out,
and returning to business, triumphantly answers a question as to the
whereabouts of the hisser:--

"Oh, I left him lyin' out there in the gutther where the collar 'll
come along an' get 'im."

Occasionally there will be an incident of a more dangerous kind, but
tinged slightly with romance. It is related that a cowboy went into a
variety show in Marshal, Texas, one night and made quite a scene. His
"mash" was a "chair sweater" in the show. Entering the place one night
considerably under the influence of brine, he called to his love in
stentorian tones:--

"Mary, get your duds on and come with me."

"Sh-h-h!" said Mary.

[Illustration: ARMADO AND JAQUENETTA.

    ARM.:--I love thee.

    JAQ.:--So I heard you say.

                _Love's Labour Lost, Act I., Scene 2._
]

"Sh-h, nothing," was the lover's response. "You jest tog up quicker'n
h--, or I'll douse these glims."

"I'll be through in an hour," urged Mary pacifically.

"This show'll be out sooner than that," was the cowboy's answer, as
he pulled his barker and began shooting the tips off the side lights.
He had just emptied his "weapin" and was about loading up again, when
the frightened audience was reassured by the stage manager stepping on
the stage and saying, "Mary, you are excused for the remainder of the
evening. Go dress right away."

A "chair sweater," or "stuffer" as she is called out West, is a girl
who sits in the first part, and who has nothing else to do than wear
skirts short enough to display her limbs, and join in the choruses if
she can do so without knocking the life out of the selection. After the
first part she sits in the boxes and "works" the boys for drinks. If
she can't make anything in the boxes she goes out into the audience--in
the lowest of these dens--and flits from one place to another getting
a drink here, and by that time "spotting" somebody over there whom she
esteems worthy of "striking." She keeps this up all night, until the
after-piece--the cancan, or whatever else it may be--is reached, when
she goes behind the scenes and appears on the stage in the same street
costume she has worn out in the audience. The "chair sweater's" lot is
not a happy one. While pursuing her sudorific vocation she innocently
imagines that she is making an actress out of herself, and I guess she
is--a "dive" actress.

Now and then the "chair sweater" combines her own business with that of
her employer by selling her own or other photographs to "grays." Some
of these pictures are of the vilest kind, but they sell readily to the
patrons of the "dive," and as the sale is effected quietly, even an
honest granger now and then buys one, "just to show 'em up around the
grocery."

[Illustration: LAURA DON.]

The variety "dive" usually closes its performance with a fiery and
untamed cancan, all the people of the company joining in the dance, the
men usually in the character costumes and "make-up" in which they have
appeared before in their sketches or acts.

[Illustration: BENEDICK AND BEATRICE.

    BEATRICE:--Talk with a man out of window?--a proper saying

    BENEDICK:--Nay but Beatrice;--

                _Much Ado About Nothing, Act IV., Scene 1._
]

Then follow the orgies behind the scenes. Sometimes it is a wine
supper with champagne from the bar of the house flowing so freely that
the undressed divinities do not hesitate to empty bottle after bottle
over their heads as if they were Roman candles, thereby giving the
assemblage a shower of Mumm's Extra Dry; or perhaps they will shampoo
the swelled head of one of the gentlemen.

[Illustration: MATERNA.]

In the wine-room, which is an adjunct of all these houses, and which
is a place that affords seclusion to those who want to be out of the
way of meeting friends or attracting the notice of strangers, many
extraordinary exploits are to be witnessed. Plenty of drink, however,
is necessary to stimulate the fun, and when the girls got an old victim
into their clutches they "play" him so nicely that he believes the
whole lot of them are in love with him, and every few minutes comes the
cry, "Let's have another bottle," and they have it. They sit on his
lap or play circus riding on his shoulders, and until the last bottle
has come, and the victim has run dry of funds they keep him in good
humor; then they show him the door, coldly say "Ta, ta! Baldy," and
laugh heartily at his verdant innocence as he staggers away.

[Illustration: THATCHER, PRIMROSE AND WEST.]

The man who allows any of these women--these cancan dancers or
"chair sweaters"--to entice him to their home is lost. If he has
money and they know it they will not take him to their home, but to
some lodging-house with the proprietor of which the cancan dancer is
acquainted, and whom she knows she can trust. A pitcher of beer and a
bit of drugging for the victim's glass does the business. While she is
stroking his beard and kissing the end of his nose the drug is flowing
gently into the goblet of beer. They drink, and in a short time the
soporific has its effect, and the slumbering man is relieved of his
valuables and cash. He appeals to the police, and they promise to do
something for him, but they don't. He sees the cancan dancer again
the next night but she knows nothing about it. The proprietor of the
lodging-house is dumb as an oyster. All the victim can do is to balance
the account by putting experience on the debit side of the ledger and
damphoolishness on the other.

[Illustration: A "BOWERY" ON A "LARK."]

In New York the Bowery is the great place for these dives. There
are any number of them, and the Bowery actress who is brazen enough
to smoke her cigarettes in the street, especially when she is "on
a lark," may be distinguished by the boldness of her face and the
almost masculine atmosphere that surrounds her. She seems to care for
nobody and nothing except her small dog and the loafer who spends her
money, and looks upon herself as the equal of the best woman in the
profession.

[Illustration: CONCERT SALOON BAND.]

The boy theatres which flourish in all large cities, and which are
dirty, dingy miniature places with gallery and pit, and six by nine
stages upon which the goriest of blood-curdling dramas are enacted,
have a variety phase to them, specialty performers preceding the
dramatic representations, and half-nude women mingling and drinking
with beardless youths in the boxes.

[Illustration: FEMALE BAND.]

[Illustration: FEMALE ORCHESTRA.]

The concert saloon, as some of the low places that have a fat German
with pink-spotted shirt and stove-pipe hat playing the piano, while
a chap that has the outward appearance of a speculative philosopher
is blowing a cyclone through a cracked cornet, is called, has its
attractions for many; and if there are ladies to eke out the
entertainment by squeezing discord out of an accordeon with flute
obligato of an ear-piercing and peace-destroying kind--or, in fact, if
there are any female musicians on the grounds, the proprietor of the
establishment may count on liberal patronage. The female orchestras to
be found in the Bowery, New York, where a squad of pretty girls all
dressed in white, with a female leader wielding the baton with as much
nerve as if she were old Arditi himself, are irresistible attractions
to those whose tastes lead them to lager beer, and who like to partake
of the beverage particularly in pleasant surroundings. A person does
not get very much beer, but he hears a great deal of wild music, and
unless he is over-sensitive he will forgive the music and forget the
beer--if he can. It is but a few years since that the keeper of a beer
garden first introduced these institutions into American life. His
venture proved so successful that imitators sprang up all along the
Bowery. The tenements of the East Side were explored, and every female
who could torture the neighbors with an accordeon, scrape the catgut
or bang the piano was enlisted in the grand scheme of catering to the
musical tastes of Gotham's beer drinkers.

[Illustration: JAMES O'NEILL.]

[Illustration: AN IDEAL "MASHER."]

"Over the Rhine," in Cincinnati, is a great place for cheap and vicious
amusements. A correspondent writing from there says: "The places of
amusement "Over the Rhine" line Vine Street for half a dozen blocks.
They are of the democratic and, with one exception, rude order,
more familiar to the backwoods than to the civilization east of the
Mississippi. Some are large establishments with all the fittings of an
East Side variety theatre. Others are mere halls with a limited stage
at one end. To some an admission is charged, ranging from ten cents
up to twenty-five cents, but most of them are free. The performers
include many familiar stars of the variety stage, for the salaries paid
are of the best. The performances, though vulgar, are clean enough.
The drinks pay all expenses, of course. Beer is served throughout the
house and smoking is perpetually in order. In most places there is a
gallery of boxes where the young women from the stage mingle with such
of the audience as, by their generosity, deserve such honor. These are
"stuffers," or as they call them here "chair warmers." One of them has
conquered the soul of a local critic and he is actually puffing her
into prominence in her peculiar line through the columns of one of the
leading papers."




CHAPTER XXIX.

A TEAM OF IRISH COMEDIANS.


The variety stage is responsible for a great many theatrical
"what-is-its." A few years ago there was not so much variety to the
variety business; the projectors of mastodon and megatherian companies
were not in the field to encourage poor artists, and only the really
eminent and excellent in this branch of the profession were allowed
to inflict themselves on first-class audiences. Now the dizziest
of the throng make their way to the foot-lights under respectable
auspices in the largest cities, and share with their really deserving
brethern, about in equal parts, the sympathy and applause of large and
fashionable houses. The different branches of the business are, at
present, subdivided into more parts than there were formerly principal
divisions, and every new feature of the profession has its exalted and
also its insignificant exponents. There are a hundred and one different
styles of song-and-dance men and song-and-dance women; serio-comics are
as widely variant in their styles and repertoires, as they call the few
songs they sing threadbare, as they are numerous and diverse in their
types of beauty or ugliness; sketch artists have in their multiplicity
infringed upon the legitimate comedians, the wild burlesques, and the
highly operatic stars' territories; there are scores and scores of
schools of musical mokes and thousands of performers with eccentric
acts of one kind or another that are intended to astonish and bewilder
the "natives," as they call the vast number of people who patronize
their shows. But the Irish comedian stands out amid all these changes,
immutable in his make-up and unmindful of the hoary age of the jokes
with which he tortures the intelligent portions of his audiences. He
has been dressed and redressed and placed before the public in any
number of shapes that were intended to be novel, extending from the
one extreme of the so-called neat Irish humorist to the other, at
which stands the loud-mouthed, heel-clicking and head-breaking North of
Ireland character; but the disguise is always thin, the efforts of the
performers are vapid, and all the comedians succeed in looking pretty
much alike, in saying the same melancholy things, and in betraying a
kinship that is unmistakable and strongly provocative of pity.

[Illustration: EDWIN HARRIGAN.]

A few performers have been successful in making reputations as North
of Ireland characters, but they are very few. Ferguson and Mack were
for a time at the head of this class of variety comedians, but they got
lazy, failed to exhibit anything like extensive originality, and carted
their old jokes and stale "business" to England and back, until they
have fallen pretty much to the rear ranks. Harrigan & Hart, who have
a large theatre in New York, and whose play, "Squatter Sovereignty,"
had a run of almost a year, are now the best known and really the
cleverest of the members of the profession who make a specialty of
Irish comedy. Billy Barry and Hugh Fay have made fame and money with
their laughable "Muldoon's Picnic," and there are probably a score
of others whose efforts would be worth mentioning if they could be
recalled at this moment. As in all other lines, however, the ranks
have been filled up with men and boys who are even more ignorant and
ridiculous off the stage than on; who have graduated from newspaper
hawking and boot blacking routes to the back door of the stage, and
whose limited powers of mimicry, whose retentive memories for old
and poor jokes, and whose rhinoceros-hide cheek--absolute "gall"
they would call it themselves--are their only recommendations to any
consideration. They, like all other really bad actors, look down upon
every brother professional and imagine that they alone have attained to
the privileged height above which there is no firm foothold for anybody
else. It is the pleasing prerogative of all poor artists to have
hallucinations of this kind, and to dwell in temples of fame that are
built upon the sands of their own imaginations. Nobody ever disabuses
them of their egotistical ideas, and if anybody attempted to do so he
would be set down as the very gausiest of "guys" for his pains.

[Illustration: TONY HART.]

The Irish comedian, and especially the eccentric gentleman who hails
from the North of Ireland, has multiplied so rapidly of late that
the stock of jokes with which the original North of Ireland comedian
started out many years ago has been turned over thousands of times,
and occasionally a modern audience actually cry when they are made
parties to the ghoulish crime of resurrecting the dead and buried gags.
It is my intention to here present the picture of a team of North of
Ireland comedians, and give an idea of the manner in which they amuse
their audiences; for some of the people who go to the theatre are so
guileless and so easily tickled that they find themselves greatly
amused by a dialogue teeming with ancient Hibernianisms. The stories
chosen are invariably of the most vulgar and disgusting character,
abounding in references and suggestions that would not be listened
to outside of the theatre. The peddlers of these rare bits of stage
humor choose all manner of make-ups to set off their stock in trade.
A gorgeous plaid suit with baggy trousers and short coat topped by a
high white hat, and the outfit completed with a cane; or a wardrobe
consisting of a semi-respectable thin-sleeved, square-tailed frock
coat and high-water broadcloth pants, with polished and towering
stove-pipe hat; or a hod-carrier's rig; or any half-idiotic attempt to
duplicate a workingman's get-up--a "gas-house tarrier," who tells you
about Micky Duffy having got a job to wheel out smoke or to suck wind
from bladders,--any of these may be chosen. The clothes may differ,
but the jokes, the "business," and the facial pictures will always be
found the same. Canes and stove-pipe hats--white or black--are even
more necessary for the success of an Irish comedian than is talent
of any kind; the canes are used for thumping the floor of the stage,
and the stove-pipe hats for banging each other in the face, for this
class of comedians always travel in pairs. There is a great deal of
floor-thumping and hat-slapping in one of their acts, and among the
rough acrobatic aspirants to fame the feet are freely used upon each
other, and there is a reckless lot of falling and tumbling in breakneck
style upon the stage.

In making up his face the Irish comedian generally likes to indulge
in a shrubbery of beard around the neck under either a clean shaven
or stubble-strewn chin; if he aims at anything like decency in his
appearances he will affect only brushy side-whiskers. A red expression
around the nose and under the eyes, and a red or black wig to match
his special eccentricity, complete his needs in this respect. The two
specimens of Irish comedians that I have chosen for presentation here
were of the alleged neat type in their profession. They were travelling
with Tony Pastor when I saw them, and in their outward aspect greatly
resembled Harry and Johnny Kernell. They were credited with holding a
high position in their particular line, and their names were on the
walls and fences in letters a foot long; in addition to this they came
on late in the programme, which is always a sure indication of the
importance of the estimate placed on an act or artist by the management.

But here comes one of them. The Stein Sisters have just finished a
song-and-dance, "the flat," for the street scene comes together, the
orchestra with a wild flourish of bass drum and cornet strikes up a
familiar Irish melody, and, after a few bars, one of the comedians
enters. He is tall, wears a gray woollen suit of fashionable cut, a
hat that never in the world would sit on an Irish head; a red-haired
wig, partly bald, is secured under the hat; gaiters with black
over-gaiters clothe the feet, and the face is smooth and genteel,
except upon the chin, whence a long thin beard protrudes like a
plowshare. An ordinary twenty-five-cent cane puts the finishing touches
to his wardrobe. He looks like a hack-driver out for a holiday, or a
Kerry Patch politician dressed for a Skirmishing Fund picnic. He faces
the audience from the middle of the lower part of the stage as boldly
as if he were going to entertain them with something new. He pretends
to be angry, and when the music has ceased, begins to pace wildly up
and down the front of the stage, as he shouts regardless of all the
rules of common sense and elocution:--

"The oidea av callin' me a tarrier! Why a Spanyard can't walk the
shtreets nowadays widout bein' taken for a Mick or a tarrier!"

There are always a few indiscreet people in the audience who laugh at
this sally, and the comedian goes on: "But there's no use talkin', my
b'y's bad as the rest av 'em. Whin he wint away from home, two years
ago, he sez to me, sez he: 'Father, whin you hear from me ag'in I'll
be President av the United States.' I got a letter from him last week
sayin' he was wan av the foinest shoemakers in the State's prison."
This also raises a laugh, and he continues: "But there's nawthin' but
trouble in this wurrld. The other day I bought a horse, and the man
tould me he'll throt a mile in two minits; and be heavens he could
do it only fur wan thing--the disthance is too much fur the toime.
[Laughter by the audience.] I'm railly ashamed ivery toime I take that
animal out a roidin', fur I've got to put a soign upon him sayin',
'This is a horse.' [Laughter.] My woife an' her mother tuck the horse
out fur a droive in the park the other day; the horse run away, the
buggy upsot, an' my woife and mother-in-law war thrun out an' kilt.
Now, whether you belave me or not, more than five hundred married min
have bin afther me thryin' to b'y that horse. [Laughter by the male
portion of the audience.] But I won't sell him, because I'm thinkin'
av gettin' married ag'in meself. [Laughter.] I've got a gerrl--she's
a swate crayther av sixteen summers, several hard winters [titter],
and I think she's put in a couple av hard falls [laughter]; but she'll
spring up ag'in all right. [Loud and indiscriminate laughter.] I tuck
her to the shlaughter-house the other day to see 'em kill hogs. She wuz
watchin' 'em butcher the poor craythers whin all to wonst she turns to
me an' sez, sez she, 'Whin'll yure turn come, dear John?' [Laughter.]
We're married now. My woife is very fond of cats. Three weeks ago she
axed me to make her a prisint av wan, and I tuck wan home. That noight
the cat got into my woife's bed-chamber, got into the bed, sucked her
breath, and in the mornin' my woife was dead. The other noight I wint
out an' got dhrunk, wint home and got in bed; the same cat kem and
sucked my breath, and be heavens! whither ye belave me or not, in the
mornin' the cat was dead!"

There are many persons in the audience who seem not to have read this
story in the original Greek,--for it appears among the queer things
Hierokles, the Joe Miller of ancient times, wrote,--and these persons
laugh at the ghastly joke, while the orchestra gives a chord, and the
comedian, tilting his hat forward, flourishing his cane and walking
around the stage with the air of a man who has done an act of charity
of which he is proud, at last comes down to the foot-lights and
sings:--

    I'm Levi McGinnis
      The alderman! The alderman!
    I'm Levi McGinnis
      The alderman so gay.

Or some equally nonsensical and jingling lines, after which he
dances a few steps and hurriedly exits. As he is going off at one
side his partner comes on at the opposite side with another armful
of "chestnuts"--as they call worn-out gags, in the show business.
The partner is known as Solomon O'Toole. He is dressed in square-cut
frock coat, high vest, and short pantaloons, has a squatty, white,
square-top, stiff hat, side-whiskers,--"Galway sluggers" or "Carolinas"
they are usually called,--carries a cane, and altogether from the
expression of his face seems a quiet and harmless fellow. His tongue is
broguey but clear, and he speaks with a rapidity which suggests that he
is either ashamed of what he is saying or is afraid he will forget some
part of it. He says:--

"Now, I'm a man can shtand a joak, but whin I go into a barber shop on
Sunday mornin' and the colored barber pins a newspaper under me chin
an' hands me a towel to read, its goin' a little too far. [Laughter.]
But whin a man goes out in the mornin', these days, there's no knowin'
whether or not he'll come back ag'in at night. The other day I went to
see a friend o' moine named John Gilligan, who lives at Newton Stuart,
about tin moile from Poketown, on the Hog an' Hominy Road, an' he tuck
me to hear a South Caroliny pr'acher who was pr'achin' an eloquint
sarmin. Everything wint all roight until the pr'acher sez, sez he,
"When God med the fust man he stud him up ag'inst a fince to dhry!" I
hollered out, "Who med the fince?" an' be heavens, they bounced me
on the impulse av the momint. [Laughter.] But az I sed afore, whin a
man goes out in the mornin' he never knows what's goin' to happen.
The other mornin' I wint over to the Grand Paycific Hotel--I go there
every mornin'; there's a friend av mine boardin' there be the waik,
an' whin he laves town I go over an' ate his males for him; but I
wint over there th' other mornin' an' picked up a paper an' I read
an arteckle headed 'The Chinaise Must Go.' Now, be heavens, I don't
want the fellow that's got my three shurrts to go until I git 'em back
from him ag'in. [Laughter.] A friend av moine named Gilligan bought a
goat the other day, an' he goes about the shtreets atin' eysthercans
an' knockin' the childher over in the gutter. He butted over a little
nagur b'y th' other mornin', and whin Gilligan was taken to coort he
summoned me as a witness for the prosecution. Whin I tuck the witness
shtand the judge axed me what me name waz, an' I sed Michael Mahoney;
an' he axed me what war me nationality, whin be way av a joak I sez,
sez I, 'I-talyan,' an' be heavens, he gev me six months for perjuree.
[Laughter.] I wint into a salune th' other day; some av the b'ys war
settin' around a table playin' cassinoe, an' whin they saw me come in,
one av 'em sez, sez he, 'Luck out for the Mick, or he'll swipe up all
the lunch!' [Laughter.] I've got a b'y that the Chicago base-ball club
used for a foul flag on rainy days. [Smiles.] They threw a ball to him
th' other day an' hit him in th' eye; I tuck him to an occulist who
tuck the eye out an' laid it on a table; be heavens, a cat kem along
an' swallied the eye. [Smiles.] The docthor tould me to kum around
next day, an' I tuck the b'y wid me. The occulist had cut out wan av
his cat's eyes, an' he puts it into the b'ys head. [Audible smiles.]
Now the b'ys doin' fust rate, only whin he goes to bed at noight wan
eye stez open an' keeps roamin' around fur rats. [Laughter.] Gilligan
has got two b'ys. Wan av thim hasn' spint a cint fur two year; he'll
be out (of prison) in October. [Laughter.] The other b'y will make his
mark in the world; in fact he med his mark on me the other noight. He
put a tack on a chair with the belligerint ind to'rds me, an' whin I
wint to sit down I got up ag'in very suddintly. I don't care how ould
a man is, or how tired he is, whin he sits down on the belligerint ind
av a tack he is bound to assoom agility an' youthfulness. [Laughter.]
It may be but a momentary assumption, but the agility is always there.
The other mornin' I intered a friend's salune. There war grape shkins
on the flure, an' I sez to him, 'How do ye do, Mr. Cassidy? I see you
had a party last night.' 'What makes you think so?' sez he. 'Because I
see the grape shkins on the flure,' sez I. 'Thim's not grape shkins,'
sez he; 'thim's eyes. Some of the b'ys hed a fight here lasht noight an'
you're now surveyin' the battle-field.' [Laughter.] But I was expectin'
a friend av moine down here, Levi McGinnis. Ah, here he comes. Levi,
how are you?"

"I'm well, Solomon," says the other, who has come on the stage and is
shaking hands with Solomon. "What kept you so quick?"

"I'd been here sooner," is the smart response, "only I couldn't get
down any later."

"It waz a very wet winther we had lasht winther, Solomon?"

"Yes. Did you buy any rubbers yet this year?"

"Not this year."

"Goodyear."

"Where did you go when you left me th' other noight?" Levi continues.

"I went down to the maskeerade ball."

"I heard you was there. They put you out because you wouldn't take your
mask off after 12 o'clock."

"But I didn't have any mask on. It waz me own face."

"That's what I tould them," says Levi, "but they wouldn't belave me."

This raises a laugh. Solomon looks for a moment with astonishment at
Levi, then thumps his cane against the floor in an angry manner, and
walks in a circle around the stage as if terribly disgusted at having
allowed himself to be sold. This look, cane-thumping and walk-around
are stereotyped Hibernianisms, and are introduced at the end of each
"sell." As Solomon O'Toole gets sold all the time this end of the
business is as exclusively his as if he had a patent on it.

"I went into a salune this mornin'," said Solomon, "to git a glass av
beer. I got me beer, ped foive sints, and waz jist goin' to blow the
foam off it when somebody cries out, 'Foight!' I laid down me beer an'
run out the dure to see where the foight waz, but there was no foight.
Whin I got back me beer waz gone. I called for another glass an' waz
goin' to dhrink it down, when somebody shouts, 'Foire!' Now I wanted
to see the foire an' I didn't want to lose me beer, so I pulls out a
bit av pincil an' paper an' wroites on it, 'I have shpit in this beer.'
When I puts the paper on tap av the beer an' wint out to see the foire.
There was no foire, an' what do you think happin'd whin I got back?"

"Your beer waz gone," said Levi.

"No it wazn't," Solomon interposed. "The beer waz there an' the bit
av paper waz on tap av it, but some sucker had wrote roight ander my
wroitin', 'So hev I.'"

The conclusion of the story is of course greeted with laughter.

"Here, Solomon," says Levi, "I want to make you a prisent."

"An' what's this?" Asks Solomon, examining the article that has been
handed to him.

"A shoe horn."

"An' what do I want wid an ould shoe horn?"

"Thry an' get your hat on your head with it" answers Levi, amid an
outburst of merriment from the audience.

"How long can a man live widout brains?" is Solomon's next conundrum.

"I don't know," says Levi. "How ould are you now?" [Laughter.]

"What is a plate of hash?" Levi asks.

"An insult to a square meal," Solomon answers triumphantly.

"Thin you can shtand more insults than any other man I ever saw," says
Levi, whereat Solomon's indignation causes him to manœuvre to the right
of stage in proper position for the next question.

"What's the diff'rence betwane you and a jackass?" he asks, looking
sternly at Levi.

The latter measures the floor with his eye, and answers, "About twelve
foot." Solomon thumps his cane against the floor once more, looks
bereft of all the pleasure he ever possessed on earth, and moving up to
Levi, says:--

"No, that's not the roight answer."

"Well," says Levi, "I'd loike to know what is the diff'rince betwane
you an' a jackass?"

"No diff'rince," shouts Solomon, throwing up his hands, and coming
down the stage shaking with laughter. Suddenly the fact dawns upon
him that he has made a mule of himself. His face assumes a bewildered
expression, and he hastily returns from the scene followed by Levi
McGinnis, while the orchestra strikes up a lively air in anticipation
of the encore which is to call the comedians out to do a wild Irish
reel.

This is a fair sample of the dialogue indulged in by a team of Irish
comedians of average ability, and the reader will at once understand
from it what ridiculous and almost disgusting language and incidents
are made use of to raise a laugh, and how very easy it is to please
a variety theatre audience. Pat Rooney's shrug of the shoulders and
Land-League phiz, or somebody else's queer walk becomes the rage, and
immediately there are a hundred weak and pitiful imitators. So, too,
with such a dialogue as the foregoing; it seems to "catch on" with
the public, and every Irish comedian on the stage must appropriate
at least a portion of it,--and usually the very worst portion. It is
safe to assume that the variety stage to-day has no so-called North of
Ireland Irishman who does not fling at least a half-dozen of the sorry
witticisms I have here given, at the heads of his audience. There is
no law against it,--no protection for the patrons of the theatres, who
can do nothing else than to grin and stand it,--and therefore the Irish
comedian and his "chestnuts" forever flourish in this land of the free
and home of the brave.




CHAPTER XXX.

THE BLACK ART.


The black art, as the art of magic is termed, has arrived at a degree
of perfection that is amazing. The magicians of the Orient for a long
time were held up as superior to any rivals outside their country. They
sat in the streets, and without paraphernalia caused flowers to burst
from pots of earth and spring into instantaneous growth; they had their
then wonderful basket trick, in which a boy, having entered a basket,
to all appearances just large enough to receive him, remained there
while the magician ran his sword through the basket in all directions,
after which the boy came forth unharmed; there were sword swallowers
among them, and altogether their skill in and knowledge of the art of
mystifying was considered beyond reproach. The Chinese, too, profess
to be good jugglers and magicians, and so they are. But the Europeans
and the Americans have stepped in, and the Hindoo and the Chinaman may
now go to the rear in magic. Houdin, Heller, Macallister, and Hermann
have done tricks far superior to anything the Eastern wonder-workers
are capable of, either in the way of mechanical intricacy or manual
dexterity. The latter feature is cultivated entirely, and you no
longer see the magician's stage covered high and low with glittering
paraphernalia, whose brightness was beautifully set off by the black
velvet hangings in the background. Now there is nothing presented to
the view of the audience except a small table in the centre of the
stage. Taking Mr. Hermann, for example: This magician comes out in full
evening dress, with coat sleeves pushed back revealing his immaculate
shirt cuffs and gorgeous sleeve buttons. Whatever articles he will
inject into his tricks he carries in the capacious pockets of his coat
or in the palm of his hand. He introduces himself pleasantly to the
audience in his broken English, and at once the performance begins.
From that time on until the last illusion is given the audience remains
in darkness as to his methods. He seldom leaves the stage, going only
up to the last entrance, where, by standing against the projecting wing
his confederate can fill his pockets with what he needs. A magician's
coat looks like a very common-place effort at the swallow-tail article.
That's all it is exteriorly, but if you get a glimpse of the side the
lining is on, you will find from eight to a dozen large and small
pockets in the garment. Two of the pockets are huge affairs, running
from the front edge back under the arms, thus leaving a wide mouth, so
that large articles can quickly be dropped into them.

Hermann is a great trickster, not only on the stage, but off. He walked
into a barber-shop in Memphis one day, went up to the place where the
razors were kept, and taking up one, calmly cut his throat, standing
before the glass after the gash had been made, and with evident
pleasure regarding the profuse flow of blood from the wound. The
barbers and their customers ran wildly into the streets yelling like a
tribe of Feejees around a barbecue of roast missionary. They called the
police, and raised a small riot in their immediate neighborhood. The
police came and entered the shop, only to find Hermann coming forward
to greet them, laughing and remarking that it was only a little
practical joke. There was not the slightest sign of any wound upon his
throat, and it was only when the barbers were told that it was Hermann,
the magician, that they could be brought to believe that he had not
really cut his throat through, and then by some wonderful healing art
closed the gap again.

[Illustration: HERMANN'S "SELL."]

During his engagement in New York last season, the famous magician
demoralized a waiter and the proprietor of a German beer saloon by
making the foaming glass appear and disappear, and in receiving the
accurate change of a five-dollar note counted it before the chagrined
proprietor and made it appear that the amount returned was $12, which
he coolly pocketed. But his best trick was the "sell" he perpetrated
on the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children. He had it
announced that he would resume his old feat of blowing a child from
a cannon, and making it appear safe and sound in the gallery of the
theatre. This set the society in arms at once. He was notified that
if he tried it the child (an apprentice) would be taken from him. He
replied that he was going to rehearse the feat on Thursday morning,
anyhow; whereupon an agent of the society, with a writ of _habeas
corpus_, rushed upon the scene. Just as he was about to ram the child
into the piece of heavy ordnance aimed at the gallery of the Grand
Opera House, the agent seized it and a tussel ensued between him
and the magician. In the pulling and hauling one of the legs of the
disputed youngster came off, and it was discovered that it was only a
gigantic, well-made-up doll. The agent escaped amid roars of laughter,
leaving his trophy behind. The press, too, had been sold by the trick,
so none of the papers published the item.

Much as Hermann has sold others, he has been pretty badly sold himself.
I remember one night while Hermann was playing South, and doing his
cabinet trick, some of the boys around the theatre put up a job on
him that resulted disastrously as far as the trick was concerned.
The cabinet is a large contrivance greatly resembling the huge
refrigerators in use in grocery stores, and some who know, say, bearing
a great resemblance to saloon refrigerators. It has a false back and
is so constructed that one or more persons may be hidden in the rear
compartment. In the trick Hermann makes use of two colored boys, who
must be alike in size and facial appearance. Only one of the boys
figures in the trick at first, going through a funny bit of play and
dialogue with the magician, until at last he leaves the stage to get a
knife with which to combat a big monkey that has been locked up in the
cabinet. When boy No. 1 goes off the stage for a knife boy No. 2 comes
back with it and is hurriedly pushed into the cabinet. Meanwhile boy
No. 1 has left the stage-door and is running fast as he can around the
block. The magician after standing at the cabinet a few minutes--just
long enough to allow boy No. 1 to get to the front entrance of the
theatre--opens the door, and lo! boy No. 2 is gone. "Boyee! Boy-ee!"
the magician shouts, "Say boy-ee w'ere are you, boy-ee?" "Here I is,
boss," the boy shouts, rushing breathlessly up the aisle. The trick
surprises everybody, and is a good one. On the occasion I refer to, the
"boys" got a policeman to arrest the lad while he was running around
from the back to the front door. The blue-coat took him to the station
and Hermann shouted in vain for his "boy-ee," and was finally obliged
to close the trick without the appearance of his darkey confederate.

As I have spoken above about the jugglers and tricksters of the Orient
I may as well say that I witnessed the performances of the trickster
who was in Harry French's Hindoo troupe. There was nothing marvellous
in his feats, the boy-and-basket trick alone being the only thing of
an astonishing character that he presented, and that being susceptible
of easy explanation, the boy being light and supple and capable of
moving or contracting his body so as to keep out of the way of the
sword thrusts, which by the way were not of a violent character. In a
private entertainment given by this juggler he appeared more awkward
and clumsier than many an amateur who undertakes to furnish a parlor
entertainment for his friends. It was evident that he would undergo
suffering and pain for the success of a trick, as he took an ordinary
wooden tooth-pick and while pretending to push it, in its entirety,
into one corner of his eye, actually did push part of it in, not having
broken it off short enough in the process of concealing it. Again
he swallowed a yard of black thread, and taking a knife cut a small
opening in his side and brought forth a yard of black thread that had,
of course, been concealed there beforehand. The thread was bloody and
was drawn slowly from its place of concealment.

A correspondent writing from China about the street jugglers to be
seen there, says: "Sword-swallowing and stone-eating appear to be
the commonest feats, and operators of this description may be found
in almost every street. One fellow, however, performed a number of
feats in front of our hotel, which demand from me more than a passing
notice. He stationed himself in the middle of the street, and having
blown a bugle-blast to give warning that he was about to begin his
entertainment, he took a small lemon or orange tree, which was covered
with fruit, and balanced it upon his head. He then blew a sort of
chirruping whistle, when immediately a number of rice birds came from
every direction, and settled upon the boughs of the bush he balanced
or fluttered about his head. He then took a cup in his hand, and began
to rattle some seeds in it, when the birds disappeared. Taking a small
bamboo tube, he next took the seeds and putting, one in it blew it at
one of the fruit, when it opened and out flew one of the birds, which
fluttered about the circle surrounding the performer. He continued
to shoot the seeds at the oranges until nearly a dozen birds were
released. He then removed the tree from his forehead, and setting it
down, took up a dish, which he held above his head, when all the birds
flew into it, then covered it over with a cover, and giving it a whirl
or two about his head, opened it and displayed a quantity of eggs,
the shells of which he broke with a little stick, releasing a bird
from each shell. The trick was neatly performed, and defied detection
from my eyes. The next trick was equally astonishing and difficult of
detection. Borrowing a handkerchief from one of his spectators, he took
an orange, cut a small hole in it, then squeezed all the juice out,
and crammed the handkerchief into it. Giving the orange to a bystander
to hold, he caught up a teapot and began to pour a cup of tea from it,
when the spout became clogged. Looking into the pot, apparently to
detect what was the matter, he pulled out the handkerchief and returned
it to the owner. He next took the orange from the bystander and cut it
open, when it was found to be full of rice."

Two of the finest tricks now on the stage are the ærial suspension and
the Indian box-trick. The latter I explain in the next chapter. The
ærial suspension, which is best seen in Prof. Seeman's performances,
consists in apparently mesmerizing a young lady while she is standing
on a stool between two upright bars, upon each of which she rests an
elbow. When she is in the mesmeric state the stool is removed, leaving
her suspended upon both elbows; then one of the bars--that under the
left elbow--is removed, and the fair subject still remains motionless,
her entire weight resting upon the elbow of the right arm, which is
extended out from the body, with the hand thrown easily and gracefully
against the cheek. Next, her figure is pushed out from the bar through
various angles, until at last she reclines upon her strange ærial
couch, which is scarcely more than one inch in diameter. The illusion
is a beautiful one, and astonishes all who see it. Occasionally the
creaking of the steel joints under the elbow is heard out in the
audience, "giving away" the feat, for the actual fact is that the young
lady is not in a mesmeric condition, but is held in position by a steel
armor worn under her costume, with a joint at the elbow that fits into
the upright bar, where a powerful system of leverage holds the body in
any position desired.

Hermann's bird trick is a fine one. He comes before the audience
with a living bird in a small cage held between both hands, and
"Wan! Two! T'ree!" with a sudden movement, and without turning away
from the audience spreads his arms, when, lo! the bird and cage have
disappeared. The explanation given by some is that the cage is made of
rubber, which, when released envelopes the bird in a sort of sack which
flies up the magician's sleeve.

Nearly every young man in the land who has seen a magician on the
stage, wants to master the black art. It is very easy for him to do so.
All he needs is a great deal of what is vulgarly known as "cheek," and
termed in theatrical slang, "gall," a quick eye, and ease and rapidity
of movement in handling articles. The first thing to be learned is the
art of "palming"--concealing small objects in the palm of the hand.
Coins, balls, handkerchiefs, etc., are hidden in this way, being held
in the open hand by the pressure of the fleshy part of the thumb. In
this way the shower of coin and many like tricks are done. When the art
of "palming" is understood, rapidity of movement is the next thing, and
then come the mechanical and other tricks.

Only the old-school magicians--the fakirs--retain the fire-eating
trick in their entertainments. Any school-boy can do it now, as the
preparation for it is very simple. By anointing the tongue with
liquid storax, a red-hot poker may be licked cool, or coals taken
from the fire may be placed upon the tongue and left there until they
become black. To any person who has an appetite for flames, or for
whom five-cent whiskey is not fiery enough, a trial of this trick
will be gratifying. And should there be a desire to walk on fire or
on red-hot iron, let the aspiring salamander take half an ounce of
camphor, dissolve it in two ounces of aqua vitæ, add to it one ounce
of quicksilver, one ounce of liquid storax, which is the droppings of
myrrh, and prevents the camphor from firing; take also two ounces of
hematis, which is red stone, to be had at the druggist's. Let them beat
it to a powder in their great mortar, for being very hard it cannot
well be reduced in a small one; add this to the ingredients already
specified, and when the walking is to be done anoint the feet with the
preparation, when the trick may be accomplished without the slightest
danger.

If anybody desires to be ghastly in his trickery, he may cut a man's
head off and put it in a platter a yard from his body. This is done
by causing a board, a cloth, and a platter to be purposely made with
holes in each to fit a boy's neck. The board must be made of two
planks, the longer and broader the better; there must be left within
half a yard of the end of each plank half a hole, that both the planks
being put together, there may remain two holes like those in a pair of
stocks. There must be made, likewise, a hole in the cloth; a platter
having a hole of the same size in the middle, and having a piece taken
out at one side the size of the neck, so that he may place his head
above; must be set directly over it; then the boy sitting or kneeling
under the board must let the head only remain upon the board in the
frame. To make the sight more dreadful, put a little brimstone into
a chafing-dish of coals, and set it before the head of the boy, who
must gasp two or three times that the smoke may enter his nostrils and
mouth, and the head presently will appear stark dead, and if a little
blood be sprinkled on his face, the sight will appear more dreadful.
This is commonly practised with boys instructed for that purpose. At
the other end of the table, where the other hole is made, another boy
of the same size as the first boy must be placed, his body on the table
and his head through the hole in the table, at the opposite end to
where the head is which is exhibited.




CHAPTER XXXI.

THE INDIAN BOX-AND-BASKET TRICK.


The Indian box-and-basket trick was for a long time a mystery even
among magicians, and now it puzzles astute people to understand how
the young man or young woman who has been tied in a sack and placed
under lock and key in a wicker basket on top of a box not only locked
and sealed but tied in all directions with stout rope, can get out of
the sack and basket and into the box within very few minutes. In 1873
Barnum paid £1,000 to a London trickster for the so-called mystery.
This extraordinary feat which puzzled the knowing ones for so long
a time was explained to me once by a magician, and will be found so
simple as to astonish those who read the explanation.

[Illustration: _Fig. 1._]

[Illustration: _Fig. 2._]

[Illustration: _Fig. 3._]

The magician begins by announcing the trick; he then brings on the
stage a large wooden box-like trunk (Fig. 1) with hinges and hasps
on it. A committee is generally called from the audience to examine
the box to see that there is no deception in its apparent stoutness.
They look it over and over and discover nothing. They then lock the
box, retain the keys, and stop up the key-holes with sealing-wax.
The committee also, amid the shouts of the audience to "tie it up
tight," wind rope around the box in all directions, making innumerable
knots and using every effort to secure the box firmly. Then on top of
the box is placed a board about as wide as the lid of the box, and
on the opposite ends of which are heavy plate staples. (Fig. 2.) The
magician's assistant now steps to the foot-lights and is introduced
to the crowd he, or she, is to astonish. A sack is brought forward,
the assistant lightly mounts to the board on top of the box, gets
into the sack, within which there is generally a stool, so that the
person inside may sit down. The magician begins to tie up the sack; he
gathers the top of it in his hands, and in the meantime the assistant
thrusts through the opening a portion of another sack, and with his
hands over his head holds in place the gathered end of the sack in
which he is concealed while the magician ties a rope around the false
end. The basket is a high, conical-shaped wicker affair, with a heavy
ring around its mouth and two large staples at opposite sides. (Fig.
3.) When the basket is placed over the assistant, the staples in its
ring fit exactly over those on the board above the box; padlocks are
passed through the staples and locked, the committee hold the key, and
sealing-wax is again applied to the keyhole. The trick is now ready,
the magician draws a screen across to hide the box and basket from the
audience, and usually within two minutes the signal is given that the
feat has been accomplished. Sometimes this signal is a pistol shot; at
other times a whistle. The screen is thrown aside, the seals on the
locks are unbroken; everything is in exactly the position in which the
committee left it, the ropes remain securely tied, seem undisturbed,
and on opening the box, which is still stout and innocent-looking as
ever, the assistant tumbles out and the trick comes to an end amid the
wild plaudits of the audience and an occasional uncomplimentary hoot at
the committeemen.

[Illustration: _Fig. 4._]

How is it done? The simple-looking contrivance that forms the
foundation of the mystery is nothing more or less than a trick-box.
Along the edges of the front, back and ends are fastened stout battens,
as can be seen in the cut. These battens are screwed to the boards
which form the upper part of the box. The lower boards at front and
back and both ends are simply sliding panels. The parts of these panels
which come directly behind the battens are filled with iron plates
pierced with holes of the shape to be seen in Fig. 4. The screws on the
lower parts of the batten are dummies--that is, they go only partly
through the battens, and do not reach the panels. On the inner sides
of the battens are iron plates, each carrying a stud, so that when the
parts of the panel plates marked _A_ come directly opposite the studs
of the battens, the panel, if pressed or pushed, will fall inside the
box; but if the studs be pressed through _A_, and the panels shoved
along so that the shanks of the studs slide through the slatted parts,
_B_, the panels will be locked securely. The unsuspicious air-holes you
see in the panels are there for a purpose; the performer uses them to
give him a purchase, so that either with his fingers or by means of a
small iron rod he may slide the panels backward or forward.

[Illustration: _Fig. 5._]

There is another piece of trickery in the construction of the board
that rests on the box and upon which the basket is placed. The plate
staples are "crooked;" that is, the staples are not of a piece with the
plates, but are separate; they are made with a shoulder, and on each of
the ends which fit tightly into holes through the plates, there is an
oval-shaped hole, as shown in Fig. 5. Inside the board are two double
bolts which pass through these holes and keep the staples in place. The
person under the basket passes a thin steel blade between the boards
and slides back the bolts at one end. He then lifts the basket, and
with it the staple. Once outside the basket he replaces it against
the staple in the plate, pushes it down, its rounded ends acting like
wedges to pushing the bolts back, which come together again through the
oval holes of the staple, locking it firmly to the board again. All
that remains to be done, then, is to slide the panel of the box, push
it in, creep through the closely woven ropes and inside the box, put
the panel back in its place and the trick is at an end.

Occasionally a performer does not find it as easy to do this trick
as it reads here. He may sometimes get stuck in the basket, or may
find it impossible to get into the box. The sack is no trouble to him
at all, for he is never really tied in the sack,--all he has to do
is to crawl out of it. Carabgraba, I think it was, while exhibiting
the Indian box-trick in Chicago at the Adelphi Theatre, in 1874,
met with an accident that set the house in an uproar, and came near
precipitating a panic. His assistant, who had succeeded in getting out
of the basket, snapped in two a small iron rod he used for sliding the
panel, and despite a long and desperate effort could not succeed in
opening the box. All he could do was to come from behind the screen,
walk to the foot-lights and beg to be excused. An expert rope-tier had
secured the box, as one of the committee called upon to do so, and the
audience crediting the expert with the failure of the trick, cried
fraud, and grew greatly excited. They would listen to no explanation
until Leonard Grover, then manager of the Adelphi, came forward and
promised that the trick would be performed later in the evening, and
that, in the meantime, the box should remain in full sight of the
audience, both of which promises were faithfully kept.

As it always takes some time to do this trick, the magician has some
kind of a "ghost story" fixed up to entertain his audience. An old
ex-conjurer, writing in _Scribner's Monthly_ on the subject, gave the
following talk, with which he usually diverted his patrons while his
assistant was getting into the box:--

"And _apropos_ of spiritualism," I would say, "I will, with your
permission, relate the adventure of a servant girl at a spiritual
seance. Miss Honora Murphy, a young female engaged in the honorable
and praiseworthy occupation of general housework merely to dispel
_ennui_, not hearing in some time from the 'b'y at home' to whom she
was engaged to be 'marrid,' was advised by the 'gerrl next doore' to
consult the spirits. Miss Murphy objected at first on the ground that
she had taken her 'Father Matchew seventeen year afore in her parish
church at home an' niver drunk sperrits,' but finally concluded to
follow the advice. The result I shall give you as detailed by her to
her friend:"--

"How kem I by the black eye? Well, dear, I'll tell yer. Afther what yer
wur tellin' me, I niver closed me eyes. The nixt marnin' I ast Maggie
Harnahan, the up-stairs gerrl, where was herself. 'In her boodoore,'
sez Maggie, an' up I goes to her.

"'What's wantin', 'Nora?' sez she.

"'I've jist heerd as how me cousin's very sick,' sez I, 'an' I'm that
frettin', I mus' go an' see her.'

"Fitter fur yer ter go ter yer wurruk,' sez she, lookin' mighty crass,
an' she the lazy hulks as niver does a turn from mornin' till night.

"'Well, dear, I niver takes sass from anny av 'em, so I ups an' tould
her, 'Sorra taste av wurk I'll do the day, an' av yer don't like it,
yer can fin' some wan else,' an' I flounced mesel' out av the boodoore.'

"Well, I wint to me room ter dress mesel,' an' whin I got on me
sale-shkin sack, I thought av me poor ould mother--may the hivins be
her bed!--could only see me, how kilt she'd be intoirely. Whin I was
dressed I wint down-stairs, an' out the front doore, an' I tell yer _I
slammed it well after me_.

"Well, me dear, whin I got ter the majum's, a big chap wid long hair
and a baird like a billy-goat kem inter the room. Sez he:--

"'Do yer want to see the majum?'

"'I do,' sez I.

"'Two dollars,' sez he.

"'For what?' says I.

"'For the sayants,' sez he.

"'Faix, it's no aunts I want to see,' sez I, 'but Luke Corrigan's own
self.' Well, me dear, wid that he gev a laugh ye'd think'd riz the roof.

"'Is he yer husban'?' sez he.

"'It's mighty 'quisitive ye are,' sez I, 'but he's not me husban', av
yer want ter know, but I want ter larn av it's alive or dead he is,
which the Lord forbid!'

"'Yer jist in the nick er time,' sez he.

"'Faix, Ould Nick's here all the time, I'm thinkin', from what I hear,'
sez I.

"Well, ter make a long story short, I ped me two dollars, an' wint into
another room, an' if ye'd guess from now till Aisther, ye'd never think
what the majum was. As I'm standin' here, 'twas _nothin' but a woman_!
I was that bet, I was a'most spacheless.

"'Be sated, madam,' sez she, p'ntin' to a chair, an' I seed at wanst
that she was a very shuperior sort o' person. 'Be sated,' sez she. 'Yer
mus' jine the circle.'

"'Faix, I'll ate a thriangle, av yer wish,' sez I.

"'Yer mus' be very quite,' sez she. An' so I sot down along a lot av
other folks at a table.

"'First, I'll sing a him,' sez the majum, 'an' thin do all yees jine in
the chorus.'

"'Yer mus' axcuse me, ma'am,' sez I. 'I niver could sing, but rather
than spile the divarshun o' the company, av any wan'll whistle, I'll
dance as purty a jig as ye'll see from here to Bal'nasloe, though it's
mesel' as sez it.'

"Two young whipper-snappers begin ter laugh, but the luk I gev' em soon
shut 'em up.

"Jist then, the big chap as had me two dollars kem into the room an'
turned down the lights; in a minit majum, shtickin' her face close to
me own, whispers:

"'The sperrits is about--I kin feel 'em!'

"'Thrue for you, ma'am,' sez I, 'fur I kin smell 'em!'

"'Hush, the in_flu_ence is an me,' sez the majum. 'I kin see the lion
an' the lamb lying down together.'

"'Begorra! It's like a wild beastess show,' sez I.

"'Will yer be quite?' sez an ould chap nex' ter me. 'I hev a question
to ax.'

"'Ax yer question,' say I, 'an' I'll ax mine. I ped me two dollars, an'
I'll not be put down.'

"'Plaze be quite,' sez the majum, 'or the sperrits 'll lave.'

"Jist then kem a rap on the table.

"'Is that the sperrit of Luke Corrigan?' sez the majum.

"'It is not,' sez I, 'for he could bate any boy in Kilballyowen, an' if
his fist hit that table 'twould knock it to smithereens.'

"'Whist?' sez the majum; 'it's John's Bunions.'

"'Ax him 'bout his progress,' sez a woman wid a face like a bowl of
stirabout.

"'Ah, bathershin!' sez I. 'Let John's bunions alone and bring Luke
Corrigan to the fore.'

"'Hish!' whispers the majum; 'I feel a sperrit nare me.'

"'Feel av it has a wart on its nose,' sez I, 'for be that token ye'll
know it's Luke.'

"'The moment is suspicious,' says the majum.

"'I hope yer don't want to asperge me character,' sez I.

"'Whist!' sez she; 'the sperrits is droopin.'

"'It's droppin' yer mane,' sez I, pickin' up a small bottle she let
fall from her pocket.

"'Put that woman out,' sez an ould chap.

"'Who do ye call a woman?' sez I. 'Lay a finger on me, an' I'll scratch
a map of the County Clare on yer ugly phiz.'

"'Put her out!' 'Put her out!' sez two or three others, an' they med a
lep for me. But, holy rocket! I was up in a minute.

"'Bring an yer fightin' sperrits,' I cried, 'from Julus Sazar to Tim
Maconle, an' I'll bate 'em all fur the glory av ould Ireland!'

"The big chap as had me money kem behin' me, an' put his elbow in me
eye; but me jewel, I tassed him over as if he bin a feather, an' the
money rowled out his pocket. Wid a cry av 'Faugh-a-ballah!' I grabbed
six dollars, runned out av the doore, an' I'll never put fut in the
house ag'in. An' that's how I kem be the eye."

A story like this gives the magician's assistant plenty of time to work
the trick. Sometimes a magician whose confidence in his assistant is
not strong, or whose paraphernalia is limited, will have only the box,
and will satisfy himself with merely "tying" his assistant in a sack
on top of the box. This way the trick is surer and a great deal easier
than when the basket is used.




CHAPTER XXXII.

VENTRILOQUISM.


All who have heard Prof. Kennedy or Val Vose with their funny little
figures have wondered how they managed to produce such an effect upon
their audience--to completely delude them into the belief that the
speech came from the moving lips of the little wooden heads and not
from the closed and motionless labials of the ventriloquists. Both
gentlemen are thoroughly familiar with their art, and the entertainment
they give may be taken as a sample of the possibilities of
ventriloquism. The history of the art goes back to Biblical times, but
not until the eighteenth century have we anecdotes of the remarkable
performances of men endowed with the gift. The earliest notice of
the illusion, as carried out in modern times, has reference to Louis
Brabant _valet de chambre_ to Francis I. Having been rejected by the
parents of a rich heiress he wished to wed, he waited until the father
was dead; then he visited the widow, whom he caused to hear the voice
of her husband coming from above commanding her to give their daughter
in marriage to Louis, that he (the father) might be relieved from
purgatory. The widow was only too glad to comply. Now, Louis wanted a
wedding portion, so he went to one Cornu, a rich, miserly, and usurious
banker at Lyons, whom he terrified into giving him ten thousand crowns
by the old trick of parent and purgatory.

The works of M. L'Abbe La Chapelle, issued 1772, contain descriptions
of the ventriloquial achievements of Baron Mengen at Vienna; and those
of M. St. Gille, near Paris, are equally interesting and astonishing.
The former ingeniously constructed a doll with movable lips, which
he could readily control by a movement of the fingers under the
dress; and with this automaton he was accustomed to hold humorous and
satirical dialogues. He ascribed proficiency in his art to the frequent
gratification of a propensity for counterfeiting the cries of the lower
animals, and the voices of persons with whom he was in contact.

La Chapelle, having heard many surprising circumstances related
concerning one M. St. Gille, a grocer at St. Germainen-Laye, near
Paris, whose powers as a ventriloquist had given occasion to many
singular and diverting scenes, formed the resolution of seeing him.
Being seated with him on the opposite side of a fire, in a parlor on
the ground floor, and very attentively observing him, the Abbe, after
half an hour's conversation with M. St. Gille, heard himself called, on
a sudden, by his name and title, in a voice that seemed to come from
the roof of a house at a distance; and whilst he was pointing to the
house from which the voice had appeared to him to proceed, he was yet
more surprised at hearing the words, "it was not from that quarter,"
apparently in the same kind of voice as before, but which now seemed to
issue from under the earth at one of the corners of the room. In short,
this fictitious voice played, as it were, everywhere about him, and
seemed to proceed from any quarter or distance from which the operator
chose to transmit it to him. To the Abbe, though conscious that the
voice proceeded from the mouth of M. St. Gille, he appeared absolutely
mute while he was exercising his talent; nor could any change in
his countenance be discovered. But he observed that M. St. Gille
presented only the profile of his face to him while he was speaking as
a ventriloquist.

On another occasion, M. St. Gille sought for shelter from a storm in
a neighboring convent; and finding the community in mourning, and
inquiring the cause, he was told that one of their body, much esteemed
by them, had lately died. Some of their religious brethren attended
him to the church, and showing him the tomb of their deceased brother,
spoke very feelingly of the scanty honors that had been bestowed on his
memory, when suddenly a voice was heard, apparently proceeding from the
roof of the choir, lamenting the situation of the defunct in purgatory,
and reproaching the brotherhood with their want of zeal on his account.
The whole community being afterwards convened in the church, the
voice from the roof renewed its lamentations and reproaches, and the
whole convent fell on their faces, and vowed a solemn reparation.
Accordingly, they first chanted a _De profundis_ in full choir; during
the intervals of which the ghost occasionally expressed the comfort he
received from their pious exercises and ejaculations in his behalf.
The prior, when this religious service was concluded, entered into
a serious conversation with M. St. Gille, and inveighed against the
incredulity of our modern sceptics and pretended philosophers on the
article of ghosts and apparitions; and St. Gille found it difficult to
convince the fathers that the whole was a deception.

M. Alexandre, the noted ventriloquist, had an extraordinary facility
in counterfeiting the faces of other people. At Abbotsford, during a
visit there, he actually sat to a sculptor five times in the character
of a noted clergyman, with whose real features the sculptor was well
acquainted. When the sittings were closed and the bust modelled, the
mimic cast off his wig and assumed dress, and appeared with his own
natural countenance, to the terror almost of the sculptor, and to the
great amusement of Sir Walter Scott and others who had been in the
secret.

Of this most celebrated ventriloquist it is related that on one
occasion he was passing along the Strand, when a friend desired a
specimen of his abilities. At this instant a load of hay was passing
along near Temple Bar, when Alexandre called attention to the
suffocating cries of a man in the centre of the hay. A crowd gathered
round and stopped the astonished carter, and demanded why he was
carrying a fellow-creature in his hay. The complaints and cries of
the smothered man now became painful, and there was every reason to
believe that he was dying. The crowd, regardless of the stoppage to
the traffic, instantly proceeded to unload the hay into the street.
The smothered voice urged them to make haste; but the feelings of the
people may be imagined when the cart was empty and nobody was found,
while Alexandre and his friend walked off laughing at the unexpected
results of their trick.

The individual who wishes to know anything about this wonderful art
must learn to distinguish distances, and be able, by giving the proper
pitch to the voice, to make it reach exactly to the point indicated. He
must also know that the attention of the audience should be directed
either by the eyes or a gesture of the hand to the spot whence the
voice is supposed to issue. In order to cover the features of any
modern ventriloquial entertainment, I will here give the rules for the
two voices required, with an example of the dialogue in each case.


VOICE I.

The first is the voice in which Frederic Maccabe excelled. To acquire
this voice, speak one word or sentence in your own natural tones; then
open the mouth and fix the jaws fast, as though you were trying to
hinder anyone from opening them farther, or shutting them; draw the
tongue back in a ball; speak the same words, and the sound, instead
of being formed in the mouth will be formed in the pharynx. Great
attention must be paid to holding the jaws rigid. The sound will then
be found to imitate a voice heard from the other side of a door when
it is closed, or under a floor, or through a wall. To ventriloquize
with this voice, let the operator stand with his back to the audience
against a door. Give a gentle tap at the door, and call aloud in a
natural voice, inquiring, "Who is there?" This will have the effect
of drawing the attention of the audience to the person supposed to
be outside. Then fix the jaw as described, and utter in voice No. 1
(explained above) any words you please, such as, "I want to come in."
Ask questions in the natural voice and answer in the other. When you
have done this, open the door a little, and hold a conversation with
the imaginary person. As the door is now open, it is obvious that the
voice must be altered, for a voice will not sound to the ear when a
door is open the same as when closed. Therefore, the voice must be made
to appear face to face, or close to the ventriloquist. To do this the
voice must be altered from the original note or pitch, but be made in
another part of the mouth. This is done by closing the lips tight and
drawing one corner of the mouth downwards, or towards the ear. Then let
the lips open at that corner only, the other part to remain closed.
Next breathe, as it were, the words out of the orifice formed. Do not
speak distinctly, but expel the breath in short pulls at each word, and
as loud as possible. By so doing you will cause the illusion in the
mind of the listeners, that they hear the same voice which they heard
when the door was closed, but which is now heard more distinctly and
nearer, on account of the door being open. This voice must always be
used when the ventriloquist wishes it to appear that the sound comes
from some one close at hand, but through an obstacle. The description
of voice and dialogue may be varied, as in the following example:--


THE SUFFOCATED VICTIM.

A large box or close cupboard is used indiscriminately, as it may be
handy. The student will rap or kick the box apparently by accident. The
voice will then utter a hoarse and subdued groan, apparently from the
box or closet.

Student (pointing to the box with an air of astonishment): What is that?

Voice: I won't do so any more. I am nearly dead.

Student: Who are you? How came you there?

Voice: I only wanted to see what was going on. Let me out, do.

Student: But I don't know who you are.

Voice: Oh yes, you do.

Student: Who are you?

Voice: Your old schoolfellow, Tom ----. You know me.

Student: Why, he's in Canada.

Voice (sharply): No he ain't, he's here; but be quick.

Student (opening the lid): Perhaps he's come by the underground
railroad? Hallo!

Voice (not so muffled, as described in directions): Now then, give us a
hand.

Student (closing the lid or door sharply): No, I won't.

Voice (as before): Have pity (Tom, or Jack, or Mr. ----. as the case
may be), or I shall be choked.

Student: I don't believe you are what you say.

Voice: Why don't you let me out and see before I am dead?

Student (opening and shutting the lid and varying the voice
accordingly): Dead! not you. When did you leave Canada?

Voice: Last week. Oh! I am choking.

Student: Shall I let him out? (opening the door.) There's no one here.


VOICE II.

The second voice is the more easy to be acquired. It is the voice by
which all ventriloquists make a supposed person speak from a long
distance, or from, or through the ceiling. In the first place, with
your back to the audience, direct their attention to the ceiling by
pointing to it or by looking intently at it. Call loudly, and ask some
question, as though you believed some person to be concealed there.
Make your own voice very distinct, and as near the lips as possible,
inasmuch as that will help the illusion. Then in exactly the same tone
and pitch answer; but, in order that the same voice may seem to proceed
from the point indicated, the words must be formed at the back part of
the roof of the mouth. To do this the lower jaw must be drawn back and
held there, the mouth open, which will cause the palate to be elevated
and drawn nearer to the pharynx, and the sound will be reflected in
that cavity, and appear to come from the roof. Too much attention
cannot be paid to the manner in which the breath is used in this voice.
When speaking to the supposed person, expel the words with a deep,
quick breath.

When answering in the imitative manner, the breath must be held
back and expelled very slowly, and the voice will come in a subdued
and muffled manner, little above a whisper, but so as to be well
distinguished. To cause the supposed voice to come nearer by degrees,
call loudly, and say, "I want you down here," or words to that effect.
At the same time make a motion downwards with your hand. Hold some
conversation with the voice and cause it to say, "I am coming," or
"Here I am," each time indicating the descent with the hand. When the
voice is supposed to approach nearer, the sound must alter, to denote
the progress of the movement. Therefore let the voice at every supposed
step, roll, as it were, by degrees, from the pharynx more into the
cavity of the mouth, and at each supposed step, contracting the opening
of the mouth, until the lips are drawn up as if you were whistling.
By so doing the cavity of the mouth will be very much enlarged. This
will cause the voice to be obscured, and so appear to come nearer by
degrees. At the same time, care must be taken not to articulate the
consonant sounds plainly, as that would cause the disarrangement of
the lips and cavity of the mouth; and in all imitative voices the
consonants must scarcely be articulated at all, especially if the
ventriloquist faces the audience. For example: suppose the imitative
voice is made to say, "Mind what you are doing, you bad boy," it must
be spoken, as if it were written, "'ind 'ot you're doing, you 'ad
whoy." This kind of articulation may be practised by forming the words
in the pharynx, and then sending them out of the mouth by sudden
expulsions of the breath clean from the lungs at every word. This is
most useful in ventriloquism, and to illustrate it we will take the man
on the roof as an illustration. This is an example almost invariably
successful, and is constantly used by skilled professors of the art.
As we have before repeatedly intimated, the eyes and attention of the
audience must be directed to the supposed spot from whence the illusive
voice is supposed to proceed:--

Student: Are you up there, Jem?

Voice: Hallo! who's that?

Student: It's I! Are you nearly finished?

Voice: Only three more slates to put on, master.

Student: I want you here, Jem.

Voice: I am coming directly.

Student: Which way, Jem?

Voice: Over the roof and down the trap. (Voice is supposed to be
moving, as the student turns and points with his finger.)

Student: Which way?

Voice (nearer): Through the trap and down the stairs.

Student: How long shall you be?

Voice: Only a few minutes. I am coming as fast as I can.

The voice now approaches the door, and is taken up by the same tone,
but produced as in the first voice.

       *       *       *       *       *

I have room to add only a few polyphonic imitations. To imitate the
tormenting bee, the student must use considerable pressure on his
chest, as if he was about to groan suddenly, but instead of which, the
sound must be confined and prolonged in the throat: the greater the
pressure, the higher will be the faint note produced, and which will
perfectly resemble the buzzing of the bee or wasp. Now, to imitate the
buzzing of a bluebottle fly, it will be necessary for the sound to be
made with the lips instead of the throat; this is done by closing the
lips very tight, except at one corner, where a small aperture is left;
fill that cheek full of wind, but not the other, then slowly blow or
force the wind contained in the cheek out of the aperture: if this is
done properly, it will cause a sound exactly like the buzzing of a
bluebottle fly.

The noise caused by planing and sawing wood can also be imitated
without much difficulty, and it causes a great deal of amusement.
The student must, however, bear in mind that every action must be
_imitated_ as well as the noise, for the eye assists to delude the
ear. We have even seen ventriloquists carry this eye deception so far
as to have a few shavings to scatter as they proceed, and a piece
of wood to fall when the sawing is ended. To imitate planing, the
student must stand at a table a little distance from the audience, and
appear to take hold of a plane and push it forward: the sound as of
a plane is made as though you were dwelling on the last part of the
word hu_sh_--dwell upon the _sh_ a little, as _tsh_, and then clip
it short by causing the tongue to close with the palate, then over
again. Letters will not convey the peculiar sound of sawing--it must be
studied from nature.




CHAPTER XXXIII.

"ON THE ROAD."


Theatrical life is full enough of business and bustle, even when a
company is playing a long engagement in a large city; but when "on the
road," travelling from town to town--playing here a week and there
a week, with one-night stands in the intervening "villages," actors
and managers find it no easy task to retain their health and spirits,
and keep up with their "dates;" and with all but a few organizations
located almost permanently in New York, thus flitting from place to
place--a round of anxiety and railroad experiences that lasts through
forty weeks of each year--makes up the easy, glorious, and blissful
existence that so many people outside of the profession imagine is the
unalloyed portion of those who are in it.

As much of the business of a company's season as can be arranged in New
York during the summer, is attended to by the manager. He meets the
prominent theatrical managers of the country on "The Square" and makes
dates at their respective houses for his attraction. Having located
his route as to the large cities he proceeds to fill in the intervals
with one or two-night stands in smaller places, and this being done he
and his company are ready to take the road just as soon as the season
begins. The contracts for cities like Chicago, Cincinnati, Louisville,
New Orleans, and St. Louis are made and signed in New York during the
summer vacation. The others are completed while the company is on the
road.

Ahead of every attraction is a press agent, herald, avant-courier,
or, as he began to call himself two years ago, a business manager.
When he invades a town the first place he makes a rush for is the most
available opera house or hall, with the proprietor of which he makes a
contract like the following:--

    BELLEVILLE, ILL......... 1882.

  This is to certify that I have rented the hall (room or theatre)
  known as ................ to the Madison Square Theatre Company for
  .......... night ...., viz ....................... for the sum of
  ......... dollars per night, which includes license, stage hands,
  ushers, ticket-seller, etc. Said hall, passage-way, and stage to
  be well lighted, and also to be kept clean and well warmed, with
  services of janitor and privilege of matinee included.

    _Signed_:

    .................. Lessee.

    _Witness_:

    ................ Business Manager.

Numerous other contracts are made,--for hauling baggage, for carriages
and omnibus, for orchestra, etc. The hotel contract, which is as
follows, is very explicit:--

  "This is to certify that the landlord of .....................
  does hereby agree with the Agent of the Madison Square Theatre
  Company to board and lodge the said company, consisting of ........
  persons, more or less, for .......... days, more or less, at the
  rate of ........... cents per day for each person. Three meals and
  one (night's) lodging to constitute a day's board, and for any
  time less than one day the charge shall be at the same rate per
  diem as is above mentioned. Fires to be furnished at ..............
  cents per each room. No charge to be made under the above agreement
  providing the party see fit to go elsewhere. Agent to be kept at
  same rates.

    ..................... Landlord."

Having got through with making contracts the agent begins to "bill
the town." The amount of billing that is done depends largely upon
the reputation of the star or attraction, and the manner in which the
newspapers have been worked. An actress like Mary Anderson puts out
but about one hundred three-sheet bills--a three-sheet bill being the
ordinary poster that is seen upon a single bill-board--in any of the
large cities. Sarah Bernhardt and Adelina Patti, who were kept before
the public by the press for many months before they came to this
country, needed but a few three-sheet bills and a simple announcement
of their coming in the newspapers. Mrs. Langtry, Christine Nilsson,
and Henry Irving will be billed in the same economical way when they
reach our shores. Edwin Booth and John McCullough, like Mary Anderson,
use only a small quantity of three-sheet bills for advertising on the
walls. These people require few lithographs, and are likewise fortunate
in not being required to buy large space in the papers. Nearly all the
minor melodramatic and comedy attractions take to the circus style
of advertising. Charles L. Davis, of "Alvin Joslyn" fame, who wears
the largest diamond and carries the finest watch in the profession,
boasts that he always likes to bill against a circus. When he was in
St. Louis during the season of 1881-2, Mr. W. R. Cottrell, the city
bill-poster, told me that Davis put out about four thousand sheets,
and everlastingly sprinkled the windows with colored lithographs. Mr.
Cottrell also told me that this does not approach the lavishness of
circuses in decorating the fences and walls and bill-boards of cities.
These latter usually put out not less than ten thousand sheets, and
the Great London Show a few seasons ago would spread from eighteen to
twenty thousand sheets before the eyes of a city having a population of
four hundred thousand. The bill-poster gets three cents per sheet for
posting, and $1 per hundred for distributing lithographs, so that, as
will be understood, a circus or a theatrical attraction like Charles L.
Davis is a bonanza to the bill-poster.

From the big type of the bill-boards the advance agent naturally turns
his attention to the smaller, but probably more effective, type of the
newspaper. He rushes into the editorial rooms like a whirlwind, if
he is a cyclonic agent, asks in a voice of thunder for the dramatic
critic, and when that gentleman is pointed out, after depositing a
gilt-edged card and bestrewing the journalist's desk with a mass of
notices from the Oakland _Bugle_, the Bragtown _Boomerang_, and forty
other equally important and severely critical journals, proceeds to
talk so loudly that he disturbs all the writers in the room, and has
the managing editor on the point nineteen times out of twenty of
ordering him out of the office.

"I tell you what, my boy," he shouts, "we just laid 'em out cold in
Pilot Knob last night. Just got a telegram from the manager. See here:
'House jammed to the doors; hundreds turned away; great enthusiasm; big
sales to-morrow night.' Now that's no gag, but the dead square, bang-up
truth, s'elp me God."

"I see the Horse-Tail Bar _Sentinel_ gives you folks fits," the
dramatic critic quietly suggests. "It says your play is bad and your
company worse--how is that?"

"Oh that fellow is a bloody duffer," the agent replies at the top of
his voice. "Tell you the truth, we had a little trouble with him about
comps. He wanted a bushel of 'em, and because we wouldn't give 'em up
blasted us. But we did a rattling good business all the same, and don't
you forget it?"

And in this way the cyclonic agent rattles along, tormenting everybody
within hearing distance until he gets ready to go; and when he is gone
there is a sigh of relief all around the office. The managing editor
comes out and asks the dramatic critic:--

"Who was that d--d fool?"

"The agent of the Doorstep Comic Opera Company," the dramatic critic
replies.

"Well, the next time he comes in here just tell him this is not a deaf
and dumb asylum. We don't want any serenades from side-show blowers.
Don't give his d--d old company more than two lines, and make it less
than that if you can."

Fortunately for the profession this style of advance agent is dying
out, and men who understand newspapers better are coming in. There are
many real gentlemen, clever, quiet and effective, in the business,
like Mr. E. D. Price, formerly of the Detroit _Post and Tribune_;
Frank Farrell, who graduated from the New Orleans _Times_ office,
and others who have forsaken journalism for the equally arduous, but
more lucrative positions that enterprising and long-headed theatrical
managers offer them.

The advance agent sees that the hall or theatre is in proper condition,
looks after the sale of reserved seats, distributes his "comps" as
judiciously as circumstances will allow, and confronts everywhere he
goes the cunning and omnipresent dead-head--that abomination of the
show business who will spend $5 with an agent to get a free ticket from
him, when admission and a reserved sent may be purchased for $1. If the
dead-head fails to circumvent the agent he quietly awaits the coming of
the company, when he lies in ambush for the manager, of whom he demands
a pass or his life. In fact, the manager often has to undo a great deal
that his agent has done in a town, and to do over again much that the
avant-courier had seemingly done in a satisfactory manner. The company,
too, frequently find the way not so smooth or pleasant as the agent
has represented it to be: the hall or theatre in which the performance
is to be given is often a dingy, dismal place that is not only without
conveniences of any kind, but what is worse, may not be proof against
anything like demonstrative weather; the hotel fare is bad, and the
accommodations no better; the mayor, the town council, and sometimes
the prominent citizens, must have free passes; the local papers want
hatfuls of complimentary tickets, and with a house half filled with
dead-heads and one-third of the benches empty, they must, in the face
of most discouraging circumstances, appear as entertainers or meet with
the severest denunciations of the pigmy press and the most galling
criticism from the ungrateful army of dead-heads.

Now and then an actor or an actress contracts a cold during a
barn-storming tour, and the nomadic life not being calculated to aid
the healing power of medicines, the seeds of death are sown, and
soon the played-out player sinks from sight, and without causing a
single ripple upon the surface of the great sea of life, goes down
to the grave. The agent and the manager, too, share this danger, and
altogether the life of professional people when "on the road" is not so
bright or joyful as to cause any one acquainted with their trials and
troubles to envy them their lot.

[Illustration: "ON THE ROAD."]




CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE GREEN-EYED AND OTHER MONSTERS.


To the outside world the player's life seems always bright--a
rose-carpeted path with sunshine forever straying about the feet and
breath of the sweetest gardens always in their atmosphere. To the
players themselves, notwithstanding the hard work, it has the same
beauty and fascinations that other professions have for those who
have entered them. Lotta receiving the wild plaudits of her newsboy
admirers--for all over the country the street Arabs express their
willingness to "do ennythin' in de world fur Lottie"--accepting the
baskets of flowers they send her with the pennies they have pooled,
and doing her utmost to respond to a score of encores in response to
their appeals is as charming a little picture of perfect happiness and
contentment as we could find anywhere. Judic, the great opera bouffe
singer, peddling cherries, at the great charity fair in Paris, from
two panniers borne by a jackass, crying, "Buy my cherries, monsieur.
I don't sell them dear. Five francs, the little basket," is a noble
example of the generosity that distinguishes the profession of which
she is a member. A popular American actress selling photographs for
a little cripple she met in the street, and who had been rebuffed at
several, is another example of the leaning towards charity and the
kind-heartedness of a class of people against whom many bigots raise
their hands and to whom they turn their backs, saying, as the Rev. Mr.
Sabini said, that he didn't want to have anything to do with actors.
The reader has probably heard the story, but I will repeat it here:
George Holland, the actor, died in his eightieth year, on December 20,
1870. He was a player of exceeding merit in his day, and his demise was
widely and deeply regretted. Friends gathered around his casket in the
awful moment when they were to part with him forever. The rites of the
church were wanted for him, of course, and an actor friend went to Rev.
Sabini and asked him to officiate. He declined, saying: "I want to have
nothing to do with an actor. There is a little place around the corner
were they do these things." And sure enough there was, and the actors
took their dead friend into "the little place around the corner," and
Dr. Houghton said the last prayer over the dead player. That "place"
is now known among actors and by the public too as "the little church
around the corner." It is the Church of the Transfiguration, and is on
Twenty-ninth Street near Madison Avenue.

It is only occasionally that scandal is given by the theatrical
profession, but these few and far-between occasions are sufficient
to keep alive the bad opinion that certain people have of actors and
actresses. It is true the class is weak at many points, as are other
classes, but as I have urged before, they maintain a higher standard
of morality and adorn their circle better than any other people whose
paths are strewn as plentifully with temptations. At the beginning of
the eighteenth century the stage was in very bad condition because
society was in a worse condition, and if there is frailty in the ranks
of actresses of to-day, and weaknesses among actors, it is because
their surroundings compel them to be what they are, and even under
this compulsion they can hold their heads as high as their neighbors
and look them in the face without feeling that they are any worse than
the rest of the world, even if they are so bad. It is my purpose to
say something about the dark side of theatrical life that the reader
may see just what there is in the talk indulged by the scandal-mongers
of the anti-theatrical class, and that it may be known that their
indiscretions and their sins are no more heinous than the sins and
transgressions of other people, and that in very few instances are they
the outcome of the actor or actress's professional surroundings.

The estrangement of Edwin Booth and his wife or the divorce of Edwin
Forrest from his wife did not cause the world to think any the less
of these gentlemen as actors, and the events did not bring any
opprobrium upon the profession. Sarah Bernhardt's open avowal that her
children were fatherless and they were only "accidents" was a frank
confession of an early indiscretion that almost everybody was ready to
forgive. She was not received by society in this country, but society
knelt before her at the shrine of Thespis, as they did at the feet
of Mme. Patti, who flaunted Nicolini in the face of the public, as
the successor of the Marquis de Caux in all the rights of a husband
although there never had been any marriage ceremony to make the tenor
the legal companion of the beautiful diva. For the sake of their art
the sins of these two gifted women were partially forgotten, and while
society could not open its doors to Mlle. Bernhardt or Mme. Patti,
it went readily to the open doors through which the presence of the
actress and of the songstress was to be reached.

A New York correspondent says: "Having mentioned two French actresses,
let me drop into the true story of Bernhardt and Colombier's quarrel,
and the book about America which has been put forth in Colombier's
name. When Bernhardt came over here, she was accompanied by Jehan
Soudan, a Parisian writer. He was very small, closely buttoned up to
the neck, very bushy haired, and very much like a particularly mild
and girlish divinity student. For all that, he was the accredited
temporary lover of Bernhardt. His other errand was to write an account
of her tour, to be published as from her own pen. While in this city
he was an object of considerable ridicule, and his name was maltreated
from Jehan Soudan into Sudden Johnny. But Colombier, the fair and fat
actress of Bernhardt's company, did not regard him as comic. Quite on
the contrary, she fell in love with him, and he fell in love with her.
However, this new reciprocity of hearts was kept hidden until near the
end of the journey. Then it came out through Sudden Johnny carelessly
kissing Colombier too loud in a thin-partitioned dressing-room. The
smack was heard by Bernhardt. I don't imagine that she cared much
for Johnny, or would have missed him from the ranks of her favored
admirers; but it made her just as mad as she could be to lose him to
Colombier. Now, Colombier's beauty was marred by a deflection of her
nose to one side. That's not much, for the chances are ten to one that
the sides of your own face don't exactly agree. Try a glass critically,
and see. Well, when Colombier emerged from her room with Johnny, to go
on the stage, Sarah regarded her quizzically, and then said something
in French equivalent to:--

"'Ah, my dear, I fear you kiss too much on one side of your mouth. It
has really and truly bent your nose awry. Do let the other side have
some of Jehan's attention.'

"No more was said. But that Johnny and Colombier plotted a deep
revenge is evident, for the book appears in Paris with the name of
Colombier instead of Bernhardt as author, and among its numerous
ridiculous lies about Americans are some spiteful little flings at
Sarah. Thus Sudden Johnny gets even."

Mme. Patti, too, had a young man with her--Michael Mortier, brother
of the editor of the Paris _Figaro_--who was to write a book for her,
but in St. Louis he spoke too freely to a newspaper reporter about Mme.
Patti's relations to Nicolini, and Mortier's life was thereafter made
so miserable that he was glad soon to make a bee line for Paris, where
it is to be hoped he is at present.

A London correspondent tells us how a favorite actress of that place
faced three husbands, and as it is in order to continue turning the
crank of the scandal machine while foreign talent is the material
to be ground, I will give the paragraph. He says: "The true glory
of the Lyceum Theatre is that English Bernhardt, Miss Ellen Terry.
This blue-eyed, blonde-locked, Saxon siren is not a radiant beauty as
was the ill-fated Adelaide Neilson, but she is something better--she
is a charmeuse, as the French call any one possessing that peculiar
feminine--which she exercises so powerfully--magnetism. She is the most
gifted, and withal the most naturally graceful, woman that I have ever
seen. The little movements and artistic attitudes of Sarah Bernhardt
would seem forced and artificial beside that unborn charm and harmony
of gesture, unstudied and perfect as the ripple of tall grasses or the
swaying of the branches of a weeping willow beneath a summer breeze.
She is pure womanly, every inch of her. She cannot be awkward even
when she tries; and I saw her try the other night in 'The Belle's
Stratagem;' but instead of transforming _Letitia Handy_ into a country
hoyden in accordance with the text, she only succeeded in assuming a
pretty _espieglerie_ that, had I been _Doricourt_, would have driven
me to catch her straightway in my arms and kiss her, declaring that
she was charming anyhow. Off the stage I am told that she is quite as
fascinating as when before the foot-lights. She has proved the extent
of her power of enchantment by successfully winning and wedding three
husbands, all of whom are still living, divorce and not death having
released her from two of them. In fact, it is reported that while
walking in the Grosvenor Gallery recently, with her present spouse, Mr.
Kelly, she came face to face with her two former husbands, who were
promenading there together, and that the only embarrassed personage of
the quartette was Mr. Kelly; and they do say that the law will soon
be called into requisition to break the bonds that unite her to her
present spouse, and that she will then become the wife of a prominent
English actor. Truly this wonderful and interesting lady ought to
inscribe on her wedding-ring the motto said to have been adopted by the
old Countess of Desmond on the occasion of her fourth marriage:--

    If I survive
    I'll have five.

Jealousy is at the bottom of nearly every scandal connected with
the stage, or with people who have been on the stage. The story of
Lizzie McCall's crime is a peculiarly sad one. She had been a favorite
burlesque actress, and was playing young heroines with Boucicault
in 1880 when she met and married George Barry Wall, a young man of
twenty-five years, she being twenty-three. She promised him to leave
the stage forever, and in order that she might not be placed in the
way of temptation Wall made his home in New Utrecht, Long Island,
removing thence to New York. Jealousy early made its appearance in
their home, and their married life was not happy or peaceful. They
lived together for eighteen months, however, until one fine morning
after a violent quarrel she snatched up a pistol and shot her husband
through the throat.

[Illustration: THE M'CALL TRAGEDY.]

A Russian theatre not long since was the scene of a real drama which
deserves a place among the serious accidents of the stage. The two
leading actresses were Frenchwomen who had come to St. Petersburg
together as friends. They had occupied the same house, and lived on
terms of the warmest intimacy for some time. Then a young swell, who
had enrolled himself among the admirers of one of them, began to pay
court to the other. The consequence was a jealousy which finally led to
a separation of the whilom friends. They remained members of the same
company, however, and their jealousies found vent about the theatre.
One night after a dinner washed down with much champagne, the jilted
actress became very violent, and attempted to assault her rival in her
dressing-room. She was prevented, and went off threatening vengeance.
The course of the piece brought them together in an impassioned scene,
in the conclusion of which the one had to warn the other off with a
dagger. Heated with wine, her jealousy inflamed by the presence of her
faithless lover in a stage box, the jilted artiste lost control of
herself, and instead of a warning, dealt her rival a stab. The wounded
woman fell bleeding to the stage. Fortunately she was not fatally hurt,
and her assailant escaped with an authoritative order to leave Russia,
and stay away.

Miss Bertha Welby, who is a popular and talented actress, was a member
of the "Only a Farmer's Daughter" company, of which Miss Lilian Cleves
was the star. The two ladies could not get along together. Miss Welby
insisted that Miss Cleves was jealous of her rival's success; and so
it went on, until at last a low ruffian visited Miss Welby in her
dressing-room one night, after the performance, and demanded money from
her for having applauded her in several towns. She was afraid of the
fellow, she said, and so paid him the sum he asked--$15. She then told
him to go, and he went; but Miss Cleves, it appears, had assembled the
members of the company at the door of the dressing-room to witness the
payment of the man, who, as she declared, had led the claque that was
making Miss Welby a greater actress than the star. Miss Welby asserted
that the whole thing was a piece of blackmail, and that Miss Cleves had
instigated it.

[Illustration: BLACKMAILING AN ACTRESS.]

Operatic stars are violent sometimes in these exhibitions of jealousy.
It will be remembered that at the last Cincinnati music festival,
Gerster absolutely refused to sing if Miss Cary preceded her, and
the Hungarian prima donna was induced to appear only by the graceful
withdrawal of the fair American songstress. Miss Kellogg and Mlle.
Roze had a bitter war in St. Louis in 1879, on account of their
dressing-rooms, the American prima donna insisting on having the best
the Grand Opera House afforded. She got it at last, and was shocked
when she heard a story to the effect that Wakefield, then one of the
proprietors, had a peep-hole above the dressing-room which he not only
made use of himself but invited his friends to use.

The jealousy of Mrs. McKee Rankin (Kitty Blanchard) has more than
once been made the subject of newspaper articles. She thought her
robust husband went through the love scene with the _Widow_ (Miss Eva
Randolph) in the play with too lavish a display of affection, and the
green-eyed monster took possession of her. She stood in the wings every
night and watched the scene, and the more she watched it the madder
she got until at last she demanded from her husband that Miss Randolph
be dismissed. This Mr. Rankin sternly refused to do. Then Mrs. Rankin
refused to play, and a clever young lady was given the part of _Billy
Piper_. The newspapers praised the new _Billy_ so highly that Mrs.
Rankin hurried back to resume the part, but remained cold toward and
entirely estranged from her husband. After some time the wound was
healed and the couple reunited. There were several split-ups of this
kind, but Mr. and Mrs. Rankin are now living happily together, and it
is to be hoped that the success of their new play, "49," will keep them
happy forever.

[Illustration: JEALOUSY.]

Now and then the jealous actress's feelings are expressed in a rather
ridiculous manner. During the run of a spectacular play in one of
the large cities one of those old chaps who like to linger behind
the scenes and tickle the fairies under the chin succeeded in making
himself the admirer of one of the ladies--one who played a prince or
something of that kind. He brought her flowers every night, took her to
supper after the play, and often paid for a ride under the starry night
at a time when he should have been resting his hoary head upon his
pillow at home. He kept this up for a while; then he suddenly turned
his attention to another girl, who was doing a skipping-rope dance
during an interval in the play. He began to bring her flowers and to
feed her on midnight oysters, and to take her on moonlight rides. The
pretty prince stood it as long as she could; then she made up her mind
to be revenged on the old deceiver. She waited one night until she saw
him talking to the skipping-rope dancer, when she picked up a broom,
and stealing to the opposite side of the scene, made a high hit at his
plug hat, just as he was presenting the rival a bouquet, and knocked
the piece of head-gear clear into the outfield. The ancient Lothario
felt around among the few hairs on the top of his head to see whether
a piece of skull had not been chipped off; the skipping-rope dancer
laughed; the pretty prince hauled off and was about to bat the bouquet
to second base when the dancer danced, and what remained to do was
to advise the "old gray" to go, which he did rapidly after regaining
possession of his battered hat. He was advised that if he returned any
more the broom would be used upon himself instead of his hat; and the
scenes that he had haunted so long knew him no more after that night.

[Illustration: EDWARD KENDALL.]

A New York wife wondered for a long time where her husband went at
night. At least she learned that he haunted a down-town theatre. She
knew her husband was very fond of the drama, but was astonished when
she found out that he was patronizing the play without taking her
along, so she dressed up one evening and going up to the box-office,
asked the young man whose smiling face shone through the window, if
Mr. So-and-So was there? Now she had gone to the right source for
her information. Mr. So-and-So had taken away the affections of one
of the actresses from the man in the box-office; therefore the man
in the box-office manfully replied that Mr. So-and-So was back in
Miss Whatdyecaller's dressing-room. Would the man in the box-office
be kind enough to show Mr. So-and-So's wife where the dressing-room
was? He would, most gladly. Calling his assistant to the window the
treasurer took the lady in through the stage entrance and pointed out
the dressing-room. Sure enough there was Mr. So-and-So in very close
relation and very close conversation with Miss Whatdyecaller, who
being a ballet girl, in the act of getting herself into her gauze
and spangles, had little else on than her tights. The husband was
astounded; the wife was boiling over with rage; the dancer did not
know what to make of it. The husband said that there was blood in
his spouse's eye and fled the scene. Mrs. So-and-So then turned her
attention to the lady in summer costume, and there was a war of words
that ended in the actress snapping her fingers in the wife's face,
while the latter, unable to do or say anything in her rage, strutted
out after her faithless lord and master, who was afraid to return home
for three days, and did not return until he saw a "personal" in the
_Herald_ saying that all would be forgiven and no questions asked.

[Illustration: OUT IN THE COLD.]

The meanest trick, I think, that was ever prompted by jealousy was
one in which a well-known comedian and a handsome juvenile lady were
made the victims. Having determined to go to a fancy dress ball, they
borrowed a Mephistopheles and Venus costume, and having dressed at
the theatre in which they were playing, took their clothes to their
boarding-house, the comedian retaining only his ulster and the young
lady only her silk fur-lined cloak. In the same house the leading lady
roomed, and as the comedian had been somewhat attentive to her she grew
jealous when she saw him escorting the other flame to the ball, and
that both might be taught a lesson she resolved upon a plan of action
which she faithfully carried out. The comedian and his companion had
plenty of fun at the ball. They returned to their boarding-house about
three A. M. Both had latch-keys, but they wouldn't work. Somebody had
fastened down the bolt. What were they to do? It was a cold morning
with snow on the ground and snow still falling. Their carriage had
gone; they didn't wish to go to a hotel in masquerade style, so they
resolved to stick it out until the door would be opened. And they did
so. The comedian wrapped his ulster around him and sat down on the
doorstep; the young lady gathered her cloak around her as tightly as
she could and stood up in a corner of the entrance, shivering and
wondering what the people thought who passed by and looked at them.
They remained there three hours, and when the door was opened, it was
the leading lady who did the opening. She laughed as if she would lose
her life in the effort when she saw the plight the two were in, and
said as they passed up the hall that she was sorry she had put down
that bolt when she came home, but she thought they were both in the
house.

The story of an actor's jealousy is nicely told by a New York paper
in the following: A handsome young actress attached regularly to one
of the New York theatres has a husband and a baby, a sickly little
thing, and the husband is outrageously jealous, all the more that this
season he has done "job work," which has kept him "on the road" pretty
constantly. Lately he "came in," the "combination" with which he was
connected having "gone up." He arrived unexpectedly late one afternoon,
and found his wife out. On the table lay a note addressed to her in a
masculine hand. It was open and ran thus:--

  "DEAR FRIEND: I do not think you have any cause to be anxious about
  the baby. It is only cutting its teeth a little hard--that's all.
  However, as you desire it, and say it would relieve your mind while
  you are away at the theatre, I will come to-night about nine and
  stay all night with you. Don't speak of the trouble. I shall only
  be too glad to let you get a little sleep after being up so much
  with baby.

    Your true friend,
    K. S. STANTON, M. D."

The husband was furious at this note, seemingly so harmless. He thrust
it into his pocket, and without waiting to see his wife strode from the
house. He had now, he thought, what he had long suspected, proof of
his wife's infidelity. Why, it was shamless! Dr. Stanton would pass
the night, would he, and blame it on the baby! but he should find that
there was a husband around ready to deal terrible vengeance upon the
betrayer. His feelings were not pleasant ones, as he lay perdue the
rest of the day, nursing his wrath, to keep it warm. When the pretty
young actress came home she was told that a gentleman had called and
gone away in a great hurry, leaving no name. At about half-past ten
that evening, while she was at the theatre, the door of her bed-room
was dragged open furiously, and the enraged husband rushed in. He
looked around under the bed and into the closets, but found no man.

There were, however, two persons in the room. One an infant slumbering
peacefully in the crib, the other a lady sitting at a small table on
which lay several little bits of white paper into which she was pouring
some globules from a tiny bottle. Her eyes were blue, her complexion a
pure pink and white, and her hair, curling in loose ringlets over her
well-formed head, was just touched with gray. She looked up astonished
and said:--

"Don't make such a noise; you'll wake the child. Are you a burglar or
what do you want?"

The husband paused in his fruitless search and replied: "I want that
man."

"What man?"

"The man that's made an appointment with my wife for to-night."

"Who is your wife and what business have you in Miss ----'s bed-room?"
asked the lady.

"Miss ----'s my wife."

"Indeed; well, you can't make me believe that she ever made any
appointment with any man she oughtn't to make."

"I can't, can't I? read that then," he said, throwing the letter on the
table and scattering the medicine. The lady read the letter and began
to laugh, which enraged the husband still more.

"Where have you hidden this Dr. Stanton? I will blow his brains out,"
he cried.

"No, you won't."

"You see if I don't."

"Well, blow then: I am Dr. Stanton, the author of that letter," said
the lady.

She had to sign her name, Kate S. Stanton, and show him that the
writing was the same as in the note, before he would be convinced, and
then he was the most sheepish-looking man in New York. The story got
out, and he was the butt of every actor in the city. They refused to
believe that he "walked home." They condoled with him on account of his
ill health, which forced him to stop acting. They recommended him to
consult a doctor, especially a lady doctor, Kate Stanton, for example.
Altogether he was so "roasted" that he will have to have more than a
mere letter in future to make him thirst for vengeance.

"Hang these women doctors!" is all you can get him to say; "if they
must be doctors, why can't they sign their full name, and not make
trouble between man and wife?"




CHAPTER XXXV.

JOHN WILKES BOOTH, PRESIDENT LINCOLN'S ASSASSIN.


An interview with an old stager was published a few months ago in the
New York _Dramatic News_, which furnishes some new ideas about John
Wilkes Booth, brother of the illustrious Edwin, and the terrible crime
with which he shook a nation to its centre. John Wilkes Booth, it will
be remembered, was the man who shot and killed President Lincoln, while
the latter was witnessing a performance of "Our American Cousin," at
Ford's Theatre, Washington, D. C., on the night of April 14, 1865.
Laura Keene was on the stage at the time. Wilkes Booth entered the
President's box and shot him in the back of the head. He then made his
escape by leaping from the box to the stage, and running thence through
the stage entrance to the street, where he leaped on a horse in waiting
for him. As he sprang from the box, his foot caught in the American
flag which was draped around the railing, and he fell, spraining his
ankle. Landing on the stage, he jumped up, and waving a dagger over his
head, he shouted, "_Sic semper tyrannis_." He was subsequently shot by
Sergeant Corbett, while attempting to escape from a barn in which he
had sought refuge.

[Illustration: JOHN WILKES BOOTH.]

Said a veteran actor, referring back a score of years, to Wilkes
Booth's opening at Wallack's old theatre, on Broadway, near Broome
Street: "The piece to open in was 'Richard III.' Monday morning came
for rehearsal with the star, and the company had all assembled
awaiting him. Many were the stories told of his wonderful gifts and
eccentricities. One old member of the company, who had played with him
through Georgia, prophesied he would make a terrific hit. Said he: 'I
am an old man at the business and have seen and played with some of the
greatest tragedians the world has ever seen. I've played second to
Macready. I've divided the applause with Charles Kean. I've acted often
with Forrest, but in all my long years of professional experience this
young man Wilkes Booth (I might call him a boy), this boy is the first
actor that ever (to use a professional term) knocked me off my pins,
upset and completely left me without a word to say! Yes, sir, an old
actor like me that you would suppose an earthquake could not move, was
tongue-tied--unable to speak his lines.' 'Perhaps you never knew them,'
said our saucy soubrette. The old man smiled, and then glaring at her
said: 'Not know Shakespeare?' He turned from her with a contemptuous
smile. 'Why, then,' said Jim Collier, 'were you so much at sea if you
were so well up in the lines?' 'Wait till you see him yourself, then
ask. I tell you, gentlemen, there is more magnetism in Wilkes Booth's
eye than in any human being's I ever saw.' I listened to the old actor
with pleasure, and set him down as an enthusiast--a not uncommon thing
among some veterans of the stage, although, as a rule they are apt to
carp at the present and deplore the downfall of the past. 'What do
you think?' said Ed. Tilton to me. 'You know the young man's brother,
Edwin, and played with the father of the boys. So have I; but don't
you think our friend exaggerates a bit?' 'No, I do not,' said I, 'for
I know the genius that runs in the blood of the Booth family, and
have seen it crop up at times in just such a manner as he describes.
The last engagement that the great Junius Brutus Booth played in San
Francisco only a few weeks before his death, I was cast for _Parson
Welldo_ in a "New Way to Pay Old Debts." And when _Sir Giles_, hemmed
in on all sides, is unable to break the combination against him, sees
the parson approaching, the lion immediately becomes a lamb. His look
of heavenly sweetness when I told him of the marriage of his daughter
was a study; but when he learned she was wedded to his bitterest enemy,
only a Dore's pencil could depict the diabolical malignity of the man.
The marks of his fingers I carried upon my throat for days after, and
when he shrieked in my ear with his hot breath, and the foam dropping
from his lip--"tell me, devil, are they married?" I had but to reply
"they are," but was unable to do so. So you see I am prepared for
anything this wonderful young man may turn out to be.'

"At that moment a commotion was heard at the back of the stage,
and Baker's voice was heard to say: 'Oh! not waiting long; you are
on time!' And striding down the centre of the stage came the young
man himself who was destined to play such an unfortunate part in
the history of our country afterwards. The stage being dark at his
entrance, the foot and border lights were suddenly turned up and
revealed a face and form not easily described or forgotten. You have
seen a high-mettled racer with his sleek skin and eye of unusual
brilliancy chafing under a restless impatience to be doing something.
It is the only living thing I could liken him to. After the usual
introductions were over, with a sharp, jerky manner he commenced the
rehearsal. I watched him closely and perceived the encomiums passed
upon him by the old actor were not in the least exaggerated. Reading
entirely new to us, he gave; business never thought of by the oldest
stager, he introduced; and, when the rehearsal was over, one and all
admitted a great actor was amongst us. Knowing his own powers, he was
very particular in telling those around him not to be affrighted at
night, as he might (he said, with a smile) throw a little more fire
into the part than at rehearsal. _Lady Anne_ (Miss Gray) was gently
admonished; _Richmond_, who was Jim Collier, was bluntly told to look
out in the combat scene. Jim, who was (and probably is now) something
of an athlete, smiled a sickly smile at the idea of anybody getting the
best of him in a combat scene, and in a sotto voice said to Jim Ward,
'Keep your eye on me to-night.'

"The evening arrived, the house was fair only, and his reception was
not as warm as his merits deserved. The soliloquy over, then came
the scenes with _King Henry_, and breaking loose from all the old
orthodox, tie-wig business of the Richards since the days of Garrick
down to Joannes, he gave such a rendition of the crook-back tyrant as
was never seen before, and perhaps never will be again. Whether it was
in the gentle wooing of the _Lady Anne_, the hypocrisy of the king,
or the malignant joy at _Buckingham's_ capture down to the fight and
death of the tyrant, originality was stamped all over and through the
performance. It was a terrible picture, but it had a humorous side one
night. At the commencement of the combat, when _Richard_, covered with
blood and the dust of the battle-field, crosses swords with _Richmond_,
Collier looked defiant and almost seemed to say: 'Now, Mr. Wilkes
Booth, you have been frightening everybody to-night, try it on me?' And
at the lines where _Richard_ says, 'A dreadful lay; here's to decide
it,' the shower of blows came furious from _Richard's_ sword upon the
devoted earl's head. Now was Collier's turn, and bravely did he return
them; with renewed strength _Richard_ rained blows upon blows so fast
that the athletic Jim began to wince--as much as to say, 'How long is
this going to last?' Nothing daunted, Collier with both hands clenched
his powerful weapon, but it was only a feather upon Booth's sword. Jim
was the first to show evidence of exhaustion, and no wonder, nothing
could withstand the trip-hammer blows of that _Richard_. Watching for
his head's protection, he was too unmindful of his heels, and before he
was aware of it, the doughty Jim for once was discomfited--beaten; and
lay upon his back in the orchestra, where the maddened Booth had driven
him.

"The fight over, the curtain descended, but Booth could not rise. Many
believed him dead, but no! there was the hard breathing and the glazed,
open eye. Could it be possible this was the man who only a few moments
before nobody could withstand in his fury; now a limp mass of exhausted
nature, his nerves all unstrung, and whom a child might conquer?

"Well, the piece, as may be imagined, was a success--a positive and
an unqualified success, so much so that it was kept on the balance of
the week. "The Robbers" was called for rehearsal next, and as usual
the war (then in progress) was the sole topic of conversation. The
company was pretty evenly divided on the question, a majority of them
having played throughout the South, and had the same sympathy that the
merchant had who saw his trade diverted through other channels. Not a
word of politics was ever heard from Booth during the first week of
his engagement, although he was an attentive listener to the angry
discussions pro and con., till one morning somebody (I forget who)
read aloud from a newspaper of the arrest of Marshal George P. Kane in
Baltimore, and his incarceration in Fort McHenry by order of Stanton.
One of the company (now dead) who shall be nameless, approved heartily
of the act, and denounced the entire city of Baltimore as a hot-bed
of rebels, and should be razed to the ground. His opponent took an
entirely different view of the question, and thought the levelling to
the earth should be done to one Edwin Stanton by the aid of a pistol
shot. The unfortunate Lincoln's name was never mentioned. At the
suggestion of shooting Stanton, a voice, tremulous with emotion, at
the back of the stage was heard to exclaim. 'Yes, sir, you are right!'
It was Booth's. '_I know_ George P. Kane well; he is my friend, and
the man who could drag him from the bosom of his family for no crime
whatever, but a mere suspicion that he _may_ commit one some time,
deserves a dog's death!'

"It was not the matter of what he said, it was the manner and general
appearance of the speaker, that awed us. It would remind you of
Lucifer's defiance at the council. He stood there the embodiment of
evil. But it was for a moment only, for in the next breath with his
sharp, ringing voice, he exclaimed, 'Go on with the rehearsal!'

"That day and its events passed from memories of the majority of us,
but I never could forget the scene; the statuesque figure of the
young man uttering those few words in the centre of the old stage of
Wallack's can never be forgotten. Some months after I was awakened from
a sound sleep and told that President Lincoln had been shot. Half dazed
I inquired when, and where, and being told, asked who was the assassin?
Wilkes Booth is thought to be, but it is only a supposition that he
is the guilty one. I felt it was but too true, for I could see him in
my mind's eye as upon that day in the old theatre when he would have
undertaken any task, however bold. A few hours after proved the rumor
to be true. The last act of the tragedy all are familiar with, and one
day standing at the grave outside of Baltimore where all that is mortal
of father and son lie, I could not stifle memories of the past, and
felt like dropping a tear of pity over the sudden and early downfall
of one so promising, that had he lived might now be delighting nightly
thousands with his powerful acting."




CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE SUMMER VACATION.


The close of a theatrical season, which rarely exceeds forty weeks,
and which terminates in the month of June, is always hailed by the
prosperous actor as an occasion when he can find enjoyment and rest
in some cosy spot; or if he is in the ranks, and is ambitious to be
reckoned in the constellation of dramatic stars, he looks forward
to his summer vacation as a time in which he will have opportunity
to fix up his business for the coming season; or if he has not yet
secured a manager--probably needing one with money--he can button-hole
the financiers of the "Square," as the meeting-place and mart of the
theatrical fraternity of the entire continent is termed. The stars are
becoming so numerous, and, indeed, so insignificant, that even members
of the variety profession with the thinnest pretensions in the world to
dramatic distinction, and there are few on the legitimate stage above
the ranks of utility, who have not aspirations of the same bright and
twinkling kind. The beginning of every season finds a hundred or more
new combinations, with little talent and less money, starting out on
the road; and one, two, or three weeks brings them back, either "on
their baggage," or "on their uppers,"--that is, the railroad company
carries them home and holds the baggage for their fares, or they "count
the railroad ties," which is a metaphoric way of saying they walk home.
Very few of the cheap variety artists of the present day are worthy
of even a mean place in the "legit.," as they designate the legitimate
stage; and it may be said, too, that some stars who have succeeded
in reaching the legitimate boards would scarcely be reckoned bright
ornaments among the gems of the variety stage. This, however, is a
subject beyond the purposes of this work, and so I will not go further
into it.

[Illustration: LA GRAND DUCHESS.]

The actor and actress who have settled down to the regular routine of
general work are among the persons who get most enjoyment for their
money during their summer vacation. Stars, male and female alike, who
have made money and reached a satisfactory round on the ladder of fame,
though they may not have cottages by the seaside, or summer residences
of anything like a pretentious character, can also be counted among
the number who "loaf and invite their souls" in a profitable and
pleasurable manner. Most of the male stars have nice little nooks by
river, lake, or seaside, in quiet, cool, and shady spots, while the
tragediennes and comediennes of prominence and fortune seem to prefer
either handsome residences in New York or other Eastern metropolis, or
else a watering-place cottage. Maggie Mitchell prefers Long Branch. So
does Mary Anderson, who lives a very secluded life at this gay resort.
Most of her time is passed in playing with her little step-sister on
the lawn of their pretty place. She rides on horseback a great deal,
and takes an occasional short cruise on her new yacht, "The Galatea,"
which she has named after the latest role added to her repertoire.
Minnie Palmer, about the only real rival Lotta has got, summers at
Long Branch. Emma Abbott goes to Cape Ann. Lester Wallack devotes
himself and his vacation to making short trips in his steam yacht.
John McCullough hasn't settled down anywhere yet. Last year he went to
England to work and win a London reputation; this year he is with Gen.
Sheridan in the Yellowstone Valley. Fred. Marsden likes to go fishing
at Salmon Lake. McKee Rankin has a stock farm at Bois Blanc, Canada,
where he spends his summers. John W. Norton flies away to Coney Island,
Long Branch, and a round of the Eastern watering-places, Mrs. Norton
always accompanying him. And so the category might be lengthened out.
But it is useless. Established stars have established fortunes as well
as reputations only by dint of the hardest, and, I might add, in many
cases, least appreciated kind of work, and they deserve the thousands
of dollars they make every year. Few of the great stars fall less than
$50,000 for a forty weeks' season, and there are few whose share goes
under $1,000 a week. Joe Emmet accumulates money faster, probably,
than any other man who plays to the same prices, and John McCullough
and Mary Anderson are among the reapers of the richest harvests. Booth
seldom plays a season through, but when he does he, of course, carries
off the honors.

[Illustration: JOHN W. NORTON.]

Actors and actresses, while generous as a class, save their money,
and very few are found loitering around New York "broke," during the
vacation months. Still there are cases of poverty. I have known a
former popular Irish comedian, who belongs to a family of popular and
prosperous members of the profession, to walk the streets of a Western
town many a day without a cent in his pockets and nothing to look
up to at night for shelter but the stars high and pitiless over his
bald head. Everybody has read about the English actor, who, driven to
distress, and standing at the door of starvation, donned an old gray
wig, and was found singing and begging around Union Square. It was only
when a policeman in arresting him accidentally pulled off his wig that
the actor's identity and condition were known. The former was carefully
concealed and the latter cheerfully and liberally relieved. I was at
a banquet given by the press of St. Louis to Thomas W. Keene, the
tragedian, during his first starring season, when among the few guests
who sat down to the table, between Billy Crane and Stuart Robson, was
a short, stout, gray-headed, and long gray-bearded man, whom nobody
knew. The night was bitterly cold, still the old fellow wore only a
long, gray linen duster over a thin, red woollen shirt, with a very
queer pair of pantaloons and rough brogans. His high, battered and
wide-brimmed hat rested under his chair as if he was afraid some of
the company would steal it. He swept clean every dish set before him,
emptied every glass of wine, and with bent head, and knife and fork
in hand, was waiting anxiously for each course when it came. As soon
as he was noticed the question passed around, "Who is the old gray?"
and fun was poked at him ruthlessly; but it rebounded lightly from
the folds of his linen duster, and he heeded not the blows. When the
toasts went around the old man was asked to respond to one, and got
up and spoke charmingly for half an hour or more, introducing the
Marseillaise, both as a martial hymn, and as a song and dance. Then
he explained how the city editor of a local paper had sent him to
report the banquet; how he came shivering to the marrow of his bones to
the door of the Club House--the most fashionable in the city--and
asked permission to go into the kitchen to warm himself previous to
appearing at the banquet board, a permission which was granted. The
old man spoke so eloquently in telling a pitiful story of his poverty,
Pat Short, treasurer of the Olympic, at the instigation, I think, of
Manager Norton of the Grand Opera House, picked up a hat and took up
a collection from the ten newspaper men and ten actors present. The
collection netted $39.75, which was poured in the old man's two hands,
while his eyes were wet with tears. Then he was freely plied with wine,
and danced, sang, and gave phrenological examinations for two hours,
when the crowd dispersed in the greatest good humor. Stuart Robson told
this story to a Boston _Times_ man who made a two-column article out
of it that travelled all over the country, and in which all the credit
of the charity with the figures greatly increased was appropriated
unjustly, by Messrs. Robson & Crane. But this is not what I started out
about.

[Illustration: MARY ANDERSON.]

"While the actor seeks deep shadows under the far-reaching arms of huge
trees," writes the New York _Dramatic Times_ man, "or leisurely smokes
his pipe beneath heavy boughs, thick with scented buds and blossoms,
some one is working out his programme for the next season. This 'some
one' is often confounded with the actor himself, or is taken for the
parasite who fosters and thrives on some indirect vein of the living
and active theatrical body. The sturdy man of business, who by chance
happens to pass the pavement between Broadway and Fifth Avenue, on the
south side of Union Square, fancies that the crowd of well-dressed and,
as a rule, quiet men, are idle professionals, lounging away a warm day
between gossip and beer. He little knows that this is the theatrical
exchange of the Western World, where business is carried on in the same
honorable mode as at the Stock Exchange, without the Bedlam noises, and
that the seeming drifters under the grateful shade of the Morton House
are as shrewd in looking at the run of the theatrical market as any
Wall Street broker. Every theatre or nomadic attraction throughout the
United States has, at some time during the day, a 'some one' looking
out for 'dates' and 'booking' memoranda for future contracts. Without
any agreement to meet or transact business, the 'some one' appears
with the June roses and makes it a point to pass the Rialto between
the hours of ten A. M. and four P. M. The affairs of this exchange are
gigantic (when for instance one manager gives _bona fide_ evidence that
he has cleared $40,000 in the past season), and though it would be
impossible to make an estimate of the total amount, it is safe to say
that millions are the result of these seemingly casual meetings.

"A guide published last year gives a total of about four thousand
five hundred theatres, that kept open their doors for an average of
forty weeks. Taking the poor attraction, with the star that fills the
theatre to overflowing, the average receipts would be about $150 for
each theatre, or $675,000 paid every night for amusements throughout
the United States. This would make a total for one week, of $4,050,000,
or, for the entire season of forty weeks, $162,000,000, not counting
matinees. Taking, then, an industry that brings in over $160,000,000 in
round numbers during the season, the neatly dressed men that are said
to 'hang around the Square' are the men that control or pull the wires
and set the machinery in motion. The figures above are, after all, but
approximate, and neither include matinees, which in themselves would
count one million, nor does it include the circus world, which is not
represented on the Rialto.

"On the other side of the ledger will be found twenty-eight thousand
actors drawing their salaries from these receipts; and about twelve
thousand more, consisting of carpenters, property-men, scene-shifters,
the employees of the front of the theatre, etc. Twenty dollars a week
each would make a fair average for the entire forty thousand, and
would aggregate a total of $32,000,000 in salaries alone. Add to this
the rent of the four thousand five hundred different theatres and
halls which, at a moderate calculation of say $4,000 each, would make
$18,000,000 for the year.

"The season having closed, actors seek secluded spots, revel in the
enjoyment of flannel shirts and country life, enjoying a _dolce far
niente_ either by seashore or in wooded glens, and are described as
'resting.' In the nooks many have charming households, and under their
roof-trees happiness reigns, without much reference to 'shop.' The
manager or agent, however, as soon as one season ends, procures his
'booking' book and starts for the Square. His plan may be to play his
attraction in the South. The end of his route will then likely be New
Orleans. After having his date in that city, he will 'fill up' his
time going and coming back. If the attraction be good, he fills his
time by playing in larger cities for one week; if not, he makes one or
two-night stands, which, interpreted, means that his company plays for
one or two nights in a city. Starting in September, he works his way
down by Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington, and then in the beaten
route through Richmond, Memphis, Atlanta, etc. This route fixing shows
the experienced manager; for should he, for instance, have the week
commencing February 1st in New Orleans, he would have a night in
Mobile, Alabama, before reaching there. To a new man the Mobile manager
might offer Saturday, giving the company time to reach New Orleans on
Monday. If this be accepted, it would show inexperience in the route
maker, as the fashionable night at Mobile is Friday, Saturday being
'niggers'' night. He should so time it as to reach Mobile on Friday,
play that night to big business, have his matinee, and do the best he
could with Saturday night. In other sections of the country he must
know when the workman's pay-day is. In the oil and mining regions, for
instance, the men are paid but every fortnight. The attraction which
reaches there soonest after the pay-day fares the best.

"Another of the grave considerations is the question of railroad fares.
All but the big attractions must take into serious consideration the
general increase of railroad rates to the profession. Some of the roads
have not joined in the pool, and still cater to theatrical custom. The
cities on these routes are likely to have a rush of attractions this
season, and, as a consequence, will before long yield poor receipts.
At any rate there is a tendency, even among the best-paying companies,
to take short 'jumps' this season (1882-3) and visit cities that
would have been passed over with contempt a short time since. But the
difference of travelling expenses one or three hundred dollars in a
day, with a company of forty people, dragging extra baggage, means a
big difference in profits.

"The man on the Square has to look out for all these things, as well as
the printing of the company, one of the most important and expensive
items of a travelling company, an item which will often make him pass
wakeful days and sleepless nights. These contracts, of course, vary for
the different organizations. The big theatrical gun as well as the
smallest, either personally or through agents, keeps himself posted
of the affairs of the Rialto. No matter as to how heavy calibre the
big gun may be, he may tell his friend he don't visit the Square, but
he does, or is sure to let it be known that he lives at the Union
Square Hotel, or at some other hotel near by, where his booking is
done. Managers of provincial theatres, eager to fill the time for
their houses, travel eastward to the Mecca of theatredom, or have
their booking done by local agents or firms engaged in this city in
that specialty--the commission for an attraction being from $5 to $7.
One firm of this kind in Union Square do the booking for more than
fifty theatres, while another and larger one in Twenty-third Street
controls entire circuits, and furnishes attractions for several hundred
theatres. The manager having laid the foundation of his plan, takes the
summer to complete it, changing a town here, or a date there, to make
his route as complete as possible, and as convenient to travel over, so
as to reach a town and have his company rest before appearing.




CHAPTER XXXVII.

FUN AMONG THE ELKS.


The benevolent and protective order of Elks is a mystic organization
whose membership is made up almost entirely of theatrical people,
newspaper men, and people who have some claim or other on the dramatic
profession. It is a noble institution, having for its foundation those
grand and beautiful principles--friendship, charity, and justice. Every
prominent actor in the country is found on its rolls, and the good work
it accomplishes from one year to another is extensive, and worthy the
widest recognition. The only thing I have to find fault with is its
initiation business. Being a jolly, fun-loving set, every candidate
is put through in the liveliest kind of style. I had a friend, a low
comedian named Jughandle, who got me to be an Elk, and I think they put
up an unusually interesting bill for my initiation. In fact, I don't
think it was a genuine Elk initiation at all, but it was awful funny
for those who witnessed, and not a bit pleasant for me.

It was Sunday afternoon when I was introduced to the mysteries of this
Order. The first person I met in the ante-chamber of the lodge room
was an officer called the Outer Spyglass. He ordered two strange Elks
to lead me away to another room where I was blindfolded, and a long
gown was thrown over me. A large red box, coffin-shaped, with hinges in
the middle of the back, and a round hole in the middle of the split
lid, so that by opening the box, adjusting a man's neck to the place
intended for it, and then closing the box again, the contrivance became
the ghastliest sort of a pillory. There were arm openings in the sides
of the coffin and the lower portion which had been sawed short was not
boarded up, so that the legs might be as free as possible under the
circumstances, in walking. Into a wooden overcoat of this kind I was
hurriedly thrust, with my head protruding through the hole in the lid.
The garment had been built for a man with a longer and thinner neck
than mine, and its proportions were so entirely out of keeping with my
physique, that while I was choking, and my spinal column threatened
to crack any minute, my arms and legs were suffering the severest
torture. It was certainly a comfort to know that dead people do not as
a general thing wear their ligneous ulsters in this style. When I had
the overcoat on, the attendants tied a piece of rope around my neck, a
three-pound prayer-book was placed in my right hand, and a euchre deck
of cards in my left. Being ready for the sacrifice, one of the Elks
was delegated to introduce me to the Order. He took hold of the rope
that hung from my neck and hauled me up to the door at which the Grand
Microscope stands guard.

"The candidate is ready," said the outer Spy-Glass.

"Let him enter!" was the Microscope's command.

Trembling and helpless, I stood at last, a picture of the utmost
ridiculousness and misery, in the presence of the High, Mighty and
Magnificent Muck-a-Muck of the Order.

"Quivering candidate!" the Muck-a-Muck exclaimed. "The Elks give you
greeting. Every person here assembled stretches out his right hand
to you, and the champion Indian-Club Swinger will now give you, in
one solid chunk, the congratulations of this entire gathering for
the success that promises to attend your attempt to enter our Order.
Club-Swinger, congratulate!"

[Illustration: A CANDIDATE IN REGALIA.]

The Club-Swinger did so. It was the most startling congratulation I was
ever the recipient of. If a train of cars travelling at the rate of
100 miles an hour had run into me I could not have been more surprised.
A blow that would have made a pile driver or a quartz hammer feel that
it had no more force than the hind leg of a house-fly was planted on
the coffin lid right over the first button of my vest, and for three
minutes I sped through space. When I landed on my back I felt as if I
had run against another such blow speeding in an opposite direction
to the first. Every bone in my body was jarred to my finger tips and
toe-nails, and the wrench my neck got in the sudden stoppage gave
me the impression that my spine had been all at once lengthened out
sixteen feet and was still growing.

"Potential Pill-Prescriber!" the High Muck-a-Muck commanded, "examine
the candidate's condition and immediately report upon the same! How has
he stood the congratulation?"

The Master Physician felt my pulse, muttered to himself
"14,--48,--96,--135," and answered "He has stood it well, your Majesty."

"Then let him thrice make the circuit of the Peculiar Circle!" was the
next command.

Several Elks helped me to my feet, and after gathering up the scattered
euchre deck and restoring it and the prayer-book to my outstretched
hands, the first attendant seized the rope still dangling from my neck,
and led me on a rapid trot around the lodge room. Wherever I passed
heavy blows were rained upon my coffin covering, and I imagined I heard
several half-suppressed laughs among my tormentors. I was beginning
to get mad and had about made up my mind to throw off the wooden yoke
I was carrying around, tear the bandage from my eyes, and sail in and
punch the heads of half-a-dozen Elks, when I was pounced upon, dragged
to the floor and roughly relieved of the coffin. I felt better after
this and calmly awaited the next move.

"Bring the candidate before the throne," was the next command of the
High Muck-a-Muck.

With the assistance of a few Elks I succeeded in reaching a spot
where we stopped, and which, I suppose, was right in the midst of
the radiance that hovers nearest the presiding officer's throne. It
is needless to say that I felt very badly, and I must have looked
frightful, especially when, as happened just then, somebody clapped a
demolished stove-pipe hat on my head to add to my already ridiculous
aspect. I had hopes, however, that the end was near; but I was sadly
mistaken.

"Now, trembling neophyte," said the High Muck-a-Muck, in very
impressive tones, "the most important part of our ceremony still
remains. Hitherto you have had all the fun; from this time on the fun
will be on the side of the assembled Elks. Let the Grand Microscope
search the candidate. See that he has no life-preserver under his vest,
or pre-Raphælite panel of sole leather concealed in that portion of his
pantaloons to which the hind straps of his suspenders are fastened."

"He is entirely defenceless, your Majesty," reported the Grand
Microscope, after having made the necessary examination.

"Then let him learn the three motions through which every Prophet
passes before attaining to the grand secrets of our Order. Let him test
the swiftness of the Descent, the roughness of the Path of Progress,
and the suddenness of the Upward flight to glory, and the possession
of the everlasting talisman. When this has been done, if the candidate
still lives, prepare, my mystic brethren, to welcome him into your
circle."

My attendants now dealt with me very kindly. I hardly knew what to
think of the easy, almost respectful, manner in which they took me by
the arm as we walked along. Not a word was said. Silence intense as
that which wields a spell over an audience while some daring act is in
progress on the flying trapeze, seemed to surround me. As we walked
I felt that there was the slightest bit of a rise--a gradual going
upward--to my path. I paid little attention to this, however, because I
was receiving unusually kind treatment at the time. I had just made up
my mind that I had passed all the perilous places along the road, and
was about to mutter to myself a mixture of thanks and self-gratulations
for the security and comparative blissfulness of my condition, when,
with surprising suddenness, my attendants caught me by the arms and
legs, gave me a gentle waft forward, and then, reversing the motion,
clapped me upon a rough plank at a very steep incline, down which I
shot like lightning, regardless of the splinters that ran up into the
tenderest portions of my pantaloons, and occasionally went on short and
sharp expeditions into the neighborhood of my backbone. Down! Down!!
Down!!! I slid, until I thought I had started from the top end of
Jacob's ladder, away up beyond the furtherest space through which the
tiniest stars twinkle, and was on a rapid and important journey to the
centre of the earth. I kept on thinking this way until, for a moment,
there was a cessation of the splinter annoyance upon that portion of my
anatomy on which I usually do my sleighing. I felt myself falling, and
then I felt myself stop. The force of gravitation was never before so
fully and satisfactorily impressed upon me. I got so heavy when I had
no further to go that I nearly crushed my life out with my own weight,
and the sitting down was done with such alacrity that a pile-driver
couldn't have sent the splinters that clung to my pantaloons further
into my flesh. Add to this that the first thing I struck was not a
spring mattress, or a high hair cushion, but a wheel-barrow, filled
with small wooden cones, with sharp edges and cruel points. The shock
caused me to send up such a howl that I imagined I could see the hair
of every Elk in the land standing on end. A well-defined laugh answered
the howl, and before I could think of the front end of the prayers for
the dead, I heard the High Muck-a-Muck's voice ring out:--

"Wing him away," he commanded, "on Eincycle, the one-wheeled horse of
the Hereafter."

[Illustration: MUCK-A-MUCK.]

They wung me away at once. I discovered that the one-wheeled horse
designated by the High Muck-a-Muck when he made use of the half German
and half Latin word in his command was a very modern wheel-barrow.
The road over which the winging was done was, to say the least, an
unpleasant one. There was an obstruction of some kind every six
inches--hills and hollows without number--and, even if I had not
already been physically shattered by the exciting episodes of the
first part of the initiation, the merciless jolting I got and the
sharp-pointed cones I kept dancing up and down on were sufficient
torture to make me long for some quiet, peaceful spot on which I might
stretch out my wearied limbs and close my eyes forever. I don't know
how far I was carried over this rough road, which terminated in a tank
of chilly water, into which I was unceremoniously dumped, while a shout
went up from the assembled brotherhood that indicated that they were
highly delighted over my prospects of being drowned. After sinking
three times without any apparent effort having been made to rescue me,
I evinced a disposition to remain under water. I was beginning to fill
up rapidly, and celestial visions were already flitting before me, when
something sharp ran through my shoulder and I felt myself lifted to the
water's surface.

"See that he remains blindfolded," shouted the High Muck-a-Muck, and,
while I still dangled from an iron hook on the end of a stout pole, the
dripping handkerchief was tightened across my eyes.

"Put him through the Purgation rite," was the next order, in accordance
with which I was thrown, face forward, upon a barrel, and one Elk
taking me by the heels while another held my head, I was rolled and
rolled until I had passed through one of the most violent spells of
sea-sickness anybody ever experienced.

"Will the candidate recover?" asked the High Muck-a-Muck.

"I have some hopes, your Majesty," answered the Potential
Pill-Prescriber.

"Then bring in the Krupp gun," the Muck-a-Muck commanded, "and while he
still has life, let the candidate climb the cloud-heights around which
many a Prophet has soared."

I was trembling with cold up to the time the High Muck-a-Muck mentioned
the Krupp gun; just then a chill of fear ran down my back and my knees
knocked together so violently that I could hear the bones rattle. The
great cannon was rolled in and placed in position near where I stood.

"Spread the merciful net three hundred yards away," ordered the High
Muck-a-Muck, "and sprinkle the carpet in its centre with fourteen
papers of tacks. Place the sheet-iron bumper ten yards beyond, to
prevent the candidate from being shot out of bounds. Charge the cannon
with thirty pounds of powder; load her up and let her fly!"

They poured the thirty pounds of powder into the huge mouth of the
cannon, rammed down an iron or steel plate, and then to my horror,
grabbed me and pushed me into the piece of ordnance until my feet
rested on the metallic plate and my head barely protruded from the top
of the war-engine. Buckets of chopped ice were poured in to fill up the
vacant space, and before the congealed wadding was all in, my toes and
fingers were completely frost-bitten. When everything seemed to be in
readiness the High Muck-a-Muck said:--

"The candidate has no hat on. Fish his plug out of the lake, put an
air-cushion inside and then decorate his head with it."

The "air-cushion" referred to was only a blown bladder. It was placed
in the top of my bruised and battered wet hat, which was tightly and
gracefully placed upon my head.

"Is he ready?" shouted the High Muck-a-Muck.

"He is," was the Grand Microscope's answer.

"Then, let her go!"

Fiz! boom!! bang!!! I knew the match was at the fuse; felt the whole
business give way; heard the scream of the powder leaving the cannon
at the same moment as myself; saw the flash of fire as it burned my
eyebrows, moustache and the ends of my hair; had my breath swept away
by the swiftness of my flight, and while all these experiences were
mingled in one instantaneous jumble in my mind, whack went my head
against the sheet-iron bumper; bang! went the explosive bladder in my
hat, and, hurled back by the recoil, I fell right in the middle of
the carpet space in the merciful net, just back in the midst of the
fourteen papers of tacks that had been sprinkled there for my benefit.
I howled and jumped into the air, but every time I jumped I fell back
again and got a fresh invoice of tacks in my flesh. Although there
seemed to be nothing particularly mirth-provoking in my situation, the
assembled Elks laughed heartily until I was stuck as full of carpet
tacks as a boiled ham is of cloves at a pastry-cook's ball. Then they
took me out of the net, picked the tacks out of my back, and stood me
up, weak and exhausted, according to instructions, in front of the
throne.

"The candidate," said the High Muck-a-Muck, "has given satisfactory
evidence of his fortitude and endurance, and we are now prepared to
receive him forever into our number as an Elk. Let him take the oath
and kiss the branching antlers."

The oath was administered and I saluted the antlers with my lips as
fervently as I could under the circumstances.

"Now remove the blindfold."

The handkerchief was removed from my eyes and I saw--nothing. But I was
an Elk.

I have seen many candidates initiated into this Order since that time,
but I have never seen any such proceeding as that here described, which
leads me to infer that some friends, and among them Jughandle, put up
a job on me and used me a little roughly, for the sake of the sport it
afforded them.

[Illustration: THE CIRCUS WORLD.]




CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE CIRCUS IS HERE.


A "disengaged canvasman" who was probably driven to poetry for lack of
other work wrote the following spring verses which were published in
the New York _Clipper_:--

    In the spring the gorgeous banners float upon the circus tent,
    And the active agents' fancies on "advances" all are bent.
    In the spring the "bounding brothers" try some new and daring games,
    While the opposition "fakirs" call each other awful names.

    In the spring the "sideshow-blowers," with their never-failing tongues,
    Pump out paralyzing language from their copper-fastened lungs.
    In the spring the fair Circassian, with her every hair on end,
    Leaves again her native Brooklyn, on the road her steps to wend.

    In the spring ye "candy-butcher" shows confections old and tough,
    While the gentle lemonadist juggles with the same old stuff.
    In the spring ye merry jester learns conundrums bright and new
    (Dug up by the Christy Minstrels in the year of '52).

    In the spring--and in the ring--the riders whirl around in style,
    While the air is filled with romance (and rheumatics--I should smile)!
    In the spring--oh, well, I'll cheese it, for I haven't got a cent,
    And I think I hear the landlord, coming up to ask for rent!

There is more fact than poetry in these lines. The spring brings gaily
colored posters, like flowers of many hues, to decorate the dead walls
and fences; and litters the streets with small hand-bills in which
the wonders of the evening show are dwelt upon in a style of rhetoric
that would make George Francis Train sick. The name of the show is
too long to print in this book, even if I began at the title-page and
wrote small and close through every page down to the lower right-hand
corner of the back cover. Since they got to consolidating shows, they
have by some elastic process begun to lengthen out the name, and at
every reappearance of a circus in a town the bill-poster must add a
few yards to the length of his fence to get the improved and newly
elongated name on it, and to make a few square yards of additional
space for the fresh stock of impossible pictures the artist has chopped
out for the show. I like to regard the ridiculous art and the brazen
exaggeration of these posters. What consummate impertinence prompts the
managers of these concerns to put a circus on paper that could never
have an existence under the sun is something that it is impossible to
understand. They ask and they must have the patronage of the public
they insult by spreading such absurdities upon the wall as the picture
of one horse lying on his back with his legs up and another horse
standing above him, their eight hoofs meeting; or of a man being blown
from the mouth of a cannon, or indeed any of the other ridiculous and
gaudy illustrations which are designed to catch the eye at a distance
of one hundred yards and to hold the attention long enough to make the
investigator of bill-board literature part with a half dollar. But it
seems that circus managers and circus agents have no other idea of
advertising than to make the ink and the colors on their posters say
as much as the imagination can suggest, and to make people pay for the
privilege of finding out that they have been bamboozled. It seems to be
remunerative though, for a circus can create greater commotion in a
town than a big fire, and from the moment it pitches its tents--a city
of canvas, they usually call it--until the glory of the visit fades,
thousands are interested in it and the opening of its doors always
finds a throng with tickets in hand anxious to get inside as early as
possible, to have a thorough look at the menagerie and in the other
way, by putting in full time to get their money's worth out of the show.

The circus always comes to town with a flourish. There is a grand
street parade. The dozen elephants and sixteen camels follow the band
wagon, and then comes the cavalcade, gentlemen in court costumes and
ladies in rich trailing robes with jaunty hat of gay ribbons and
feathers flying in the breeze. The lion tamer is in the cage with the
feeble animals that he keeps stirring up with his whip; the clown
in his little chariot with his trick mule, affords amusement to the
children along the line; then the snake charmer rolls by fondling the
slimy reptiles, and after that comes a procession of red wagons with
trampish drivers in red coats, and perhaps there are some grotesque
figures on top of the wagons. At the rear some enterprising clothier
has an advertising vehicle. That is about all there is to it, if we add
the Undine wagon that has a place sometimes at the head and sometimes
in the middle of this "gorgeous street pageant." Still it goes from
one end of town to the other, scaring horses and creating the greatest
excitement among the circus-going public. The $10,000 beauty "gag"
that worked so successfully last season when Adam Forepaugh claimed to
have paid that amount to Miss Louise Montague, a variety actress, for
merely appearing in the street parade, riding on a howdah high upon the
back of his largest elephant and for participating in the grand entree
at the opening of each performance. Barnum tried to make some free
advertising for himself this season by announcing that he would pay
$10,000 to the handsomest man and $20,000 to the handsomest lady, but
he was shrewd enough to see that the scheme would not bring him back
$30,000, so he allowed it to fall through.

This subject of costly beauties recalls an incident that took place in
a Western theatre. At the house in question an actress was performing
who, in times gone by, figured as the faithless sweetheart of an
eminent sport in that very city. That gentleman hearing that his light
of love was about to appear in a new line visited the theatre to see
for himself whether or not it was really she. The memory of past
troubles caused him to drink rather more than was good for him, and
when he took his seat in the parquette near the stage, he was in a
great measure incapacitated from acting with coolness and judgment. He
believed he recognized the woman as the one who had caused him so much
sorrow and trouble. His feelings got the better of him, and standing up
in his seat he exclaimed:--

"You cost me $25,000, you cost me $25,000, and I'll cut your d--d heart
out!"

This outcry brought one of the members of the company to her
assistance, armed with a property revolver, and the air was full of war
and rumors of war until the police arrived. The $25,000 victim was led
out and the play went on.

[Illustration: TWENTY-FIVE THOUSAND DOLLAR BEAUTY.]

While the parade is on its way back to the circus lot, I will tell the
reader of an exciting parade that was witnessed at Runcorn, England,
last summer: Messrs. Sanger & Son, who were exhibiting in the town, had
announced a procession in connection with their great hippodrome, and
from twelve to one o'clock, although rain was falling very heavily,
large crowds of people began to assemble in the Market Square, Bridge
Street and the wide space in front of the Town Hall and the public
offices. To one very large car forty horses had been harnessed, to be
driven through the town by one man. This was drawn up waiting for the
start, almost opposite the _Guardian_ office, while higher up Bridge
Street stood twelve ponies harnessed to a smaller car. Near the Town
Hall stood two other cars, and as one o'clock approached and the rain
showed signs of abating, the procession was expected very shortly to
form and make the circuit of the town. Suddenly, among the horses
standing near to the shop of Messrs. Handley & Co., there was a great
commotion, and loud shouts were heard to "Clear the road." The twelve
ponies had taken fright and were rushing down Bridge Street towards
the fountain. There was no one in charge, and it was evident that some
very serious accident would result from the panic which seemed to have
seized the horses. To make matters worse, the forty horses became
frightened, and, with the ponderous car behind them, joined the ponies
in their gallop. Many persons sought refuge in the shops and doorways.
Those who were not fortunate enough to reach this shelter were trampled
upon and crushed, and the scene was one of the wildest excitement.
At one moment it seemed as though the great colossal car would be
overturned among the struggling crowd, while the plate-glass windows in
the shops on the south side of the street were within an inch of being
smashed. The scene was not of long duration, but it lasted long enough
to injure at least ten people and imperil the safety of hundreds more.
When nearing the commissioners' offices, several constables who were in
the court-room, hearing the noise outside, rushed into the street, and
were just in time to seize the ponies by the heads and turn them down
Mersey Street before they reached the Royal Hotel. The horses, through
the courageous exertions of the police and some of Messrs. Sanger &
Son's drivers, were brought to a standstill opposite the Royal Hotel.

Many people affect to be indifferent to the attractions of the circus,
saying that they saw one when they were young and as all circuses are
the same there is no use in going to see another. These people are
about right. There has been nothing new in the genuine features of
the circus for the past fifty years. There are a few deceptive tricks
that have been seen only of late years but they are mere ephemeral
illusions, easy of explanation, and time will take them out of the
circus ring as it took the lion-taming act. I can remember the time
when the cage of lions was dragged into the middle of the arena and
amid the greatest excitement the alleged lion-tamer went in among the
animals, beat them about, lay down upon the back of one and put his
head between the wide-open jaws of another. Now that performance is
lost sight of among the multitude of curiosities in the menageries. The
great unchangeable features of a show, the gymnastic, acrobatic and
equestrian work, are the same now that it was a half century ago. Still
with all its want of novelty it is attractive, as are all shows, and
grown people have been known to share the enthusiasm of the little ones
in playing circus after witnessing a performance and while the sawdust
fever was still on them. A short, funny sketch that appeared in the
Louisville _Courier-Journal_ will do to illustrate the hold the circus
has upon the average boy's heart. The writer says:--

"After the circus had opened to the public yesterday a gray-haired
colored brother, who held the hand of a boy of fourteen as both stood
gazing at the tent, shook his head in a solemn manner, and observed:--

"'It's no use to cry 'bout it, sonny, kase we am not gwine in dar no
how.'

"'But I want ter,' whined the boy.

"'In course you does. All chill'en of your aige run to evil an'
wickedness, an' dey mus' be sot down on by dose wid experience.'

[Illustration: ADAM FOREPAUGH.]

"'You used to go,' urged the boy.

"'Sartin I did, but what was de result? I had sich a load on my
conscience dat I couldn't sleep nights. I cum powerful nigh bein' a
lost man, an' in dem days de price of admishun was only a quarter, too.'

"'Can't we both git in for fifty cents?'

"'I 'speck we might, but to-morrer you'd be bilin' ober wid wickedness
an' I'd be a backslipper from de church. Hush up, now, kase I hain't
got but thirty cents, and dar am no show fur crawlin' under de canvas.'

"The boy still continued to cry, and the old man pulled him behind a
wagon, and continued:

"'Henry Clay Scott, which had you rather do--go inter de circus an' den
take de awfullest lickin' a boy eber got, or have a glass of dat red
lemonade an' go to Heaben when you die? Befo' you decide let me explain
dat I mean a lickin' which will take ebery inch of de hide off, an'
I also mean one of dem big glasses of lemonade. In addishun, I would
obsarve dat a circus am gwine on in Heaben all de time, an' de price of
admisshun am simply nominal. Now, sah, what do you say?'

"The boy took the lemonade, but he drank it with tears in his eyes."

A man living near Bloomington, Illinois, in 1870, sold his stove to
a neighbor to obtain funds to take his family to a circus that had
pitched its tents near the city. When he got back he said he was not
a bit sorry, that "he'd seen the clown, an' the gals a ridin', an'
the fellows doin' flip-flaps, an' waz so perfectly satisfied that ef
another suck-cus came along next year, an' he had a stove, he'd go to
see it on the same terms ag'in."




CHAPTER XXXIX.

UNDER THE CANVAS.


The one great wish of the small boy's heart, as he stands at a
respectful distance from the ticket wagon watching the huge canvas
rise and sink--apparently with as much ease as the flag flies from
the top of the centre-pole--is to get inside the tent before the band
begins to play. He may not have a cent to pay the admission, but he
has Micawberish hopes that far surpass any money value that might
be placed upon a small boy, that something will turn up to gain him
admission to the show. He knows that if the canvas-men give him a good
chance he can crawl in under the cloth and make his way up through
the seats. He has been told that if he is caught at such a trick the
showmen will drag him to the dressing-tent and fill his hair full of
powdered sawdust. The canvas-men are, however, vigilant; besides that,
they are lazy and do not care to move around, so the small boy must be
content to throw hand-springs in the sawdust-sprinkled lot, and keep on
hoping until the show is out. In this respect the minute boy does not
betray the same shrewdness credited to a Baltimore girl. She was on a
visit to her brother's ranche near Austin, Texas, when a small circus
came along. It is considered the acme of honesty to beat the circus in
that region--in fact, paying is heartily deprecated. Although only a
month in the place, the Baltimore belle was thoroughly imbued with the
cowboy spirit, in as far as "beating" the circus was concerned, and
when the show pitched its tents she made up her mind as to what she
was going to do. At night, when the show was under headway, she calmly
approached the circus tent on stilts, and viewed the first half of the
performance through the opening between the canvas and the roof. One of
the fighters of the show detecting something wrong, crept around with a
club to "smash" the intruder, but received a kick in the eye from the
fair stilt performer, and was so taken aback that the cowboys had time
to rally to her support and raid the show while she at a safe distance
applauded the conquering herders. The troupe left town that night in a
sadly damaged condition.

[Illustration: "BEATING" THE CIRCUS.]

Until late years circuses generally gave a balloon ascension before
the afternoon performance took place, and sometimes a slack-wire
performance was added. The latter free exhibition dropped out of sight
a short time ago, and since 1876 there have been few circus balloon
ascensions; they have been abandoned on account of the danger and
frequency of accidents. Everybody remembers the fate of Donaldson and
Greenwood, the former an æronaut in the employ of Barnum at the time,
the latter, a Chicago newspaper reporter. They left Chicago July 15,
1875, in a tattered old balloon. It was a remarkably fine day, and not
the remotest shadow of danger fell across the sunshine. The balloon
was carried out over the lake, disappeared from view, and the fate of
the missing men was not known until a portion of the tattered balloon
and the body of Greenwood, with his note-book and other articles
that helped to identify him, were found on the Michigan shore of the
great lake. The balloon had been wrecked and both men had perished in
the waves. Donaldson's body was never recovered. An imaginary sketch
of this fatal trip was written by John A. Wise, the æronaut, who
himself perished in Lake Michigan while attempting to complete a night
ascension. He and George Burr started from St. Louis at dusk, and as
the ærial ship was vanishing into the clouds it was seen for the last
time. For weeks nothing was heard of the missing men or the balloon.
They were thought to be lost in the Michigan prairies. At last Burr's
body was found on the east shore of Lake Michigan. Wise's remains were
never recovered.

[Illustration: WASHINGTON H. DONALDSON.]

A lady balloonist met with a terrible death at Cuantla, Mexico, some
time ago. A great crowd assembled to witness the balloon ascension of
Senorita Catalina Georgio, a beautiful girl only seventeen years old.
There was no car attached to the balloon, only the trapeze on which
the girl performed. The balloon shot up amid the deafening cheers of
the crowd which was present. Catalina, meanwhile, was seen clinging to
the trapeze and performing daring feats of agility. When the balloon
was three-quarters of a mile high it suddenly exploded and fell to
the ground with the unfortunate girl. Her dead body was found horribly
crushed and mangled beside the wrecked balloon. The remains were
tenderly cared for by the natives.

[Illustration: CATALINA GEORGIO'S FRIGHTFUL DEATH.]

A frightful balloon accident occurred lately at Courbevoie, near Paris.
A large crowd had assembled to witness the novel and perilous ascent
of a gymnast called August Navarre, who had volunteered to perform a
number of athletic feats on a trapeze suspended from a Montgolfier
balloon named the Vidouvillaise. Rejecting the advice of bystanders,
Navarre refused to allow himself to be tied to the trapeze. There was
no car attached to the balloon. At about five o'clock the Vidouvillaise
was let loose from its moorings and rose majestically in the air.
Navarre, hanging on to the trapeze, appeared quite confident, and
repeatedly saluted the spectators. When, however, the balloon had
reached a height of nearly one thousand yards the crowd was horrified
to see him suddenly let go the bar and fall. The descent was watched in
breathless excitement. At last the body reached the ground, striking
with such force that it made a hole in the earth two feet deep,
and rebounded four yards. It was crushed and mangled almost beyond
recognition. Meanwhile the balloon, freed from its human ballast, shot
up with lightning speed, and soon disappeared from view. Late in the
evening it burst and fell at Menilmontant, much to the consternation of
the inhabitants of that busy Parisian quarter.

The day after Donaldson's fatal ascension, Dave D. Thomas, then press
agent for Barnum, and filling the same place still, made a successful
ascension. Mr. Thomas is familiar with ballooning, and often laments
that the days of ærial ascensions as circus advertisements are past.

While waiting for the performance to begin let us drop into the
dressing-tent. It is divided in the middle by a strip of canvas
about seven feet wide, and this half space is again divided into
dressing-rooms, one for the men, the other for the women. The large
space is the green-room of the circus. It is not only that, but it is
the property-room. The performers are preparing for the grand entree.
Helmets are lying around loose, and wardrobes appear to be in a state
of great confusion. Cheap velvet gaily bespangled is quite plentiful.
It looks best at a distance. Quantities of white chalk are brought into
use, each man's face being highly powdered, his eyebrows blackened,
etc. The dressing-room is small and there is apparently much confusion
while the performers are donning their respective costumes. But each
knows what his duty is, and does it accordingly, without really
interfering with anyone else. On the other side is the ladies' room;
into this we are not permitted to cast our profane peepers, but we know
from exterior knowledge that paint and powder, short dresses and flesh
tights are rapidly converting ordinary women into equestrienne angels.
Outside of the dressing-rooms are the horses, ranged in regular order.
At a given signal the riders appear, mount and enter the ring. As they
are dashing about in apparent recklessness let us look more clearly
at them. They all look young and fresh, but there are old men in the
party who for twenty-five or thirty years have figured in the sawdust
ring. Chalk hides their wrinkles, dyestuffs their gray hairs, and skull
caps their baldness. Yonder lady who sits her steed gracefully, and who
looks as blooming as a rose on a June morning, is not only a mother,
but a grandmother. And there is George who was engaged last winter to
do "nothing, you know." He finds his duties embrace riding, leaping,
tumbling, object-holding, and occasionally in short times drive a team
on the road. There is one rider who was formerly a manager himself. He
had a big fortune once, but a few bad seasons swamped it, and he is now
glad to take his place as a performer on a moderate salary. Returning
to the dressing-room after the entree, we find the clown engaged in
putting the finishing touches to his make-up. We must look closely at
him to recognize him. He does not seem to be the same fellow we met at
the breakfast table, in stylish clothes and a shirt-front ornamented
with a California diamond. He has given himself an impossible moustache
with charcoal, and has painted bright red spots on his cheeks. You
think him a mere boy as he springs into the ring, but he has been a
mere boy for many a long year, and his bones are getting stiff and his
joints ache in spite of his assumed agility. The "gags" that he repeats
and the songs that make you laugh are not funny to him, for he has
repeated them in precisely the same inflection for an indefinite number
of nights. He comes out to play for the principal act of horsemanship.
Meantime in the dressing-room, if it is damp or chilly, the performers
are wrapping themselves in blankets or moving about to keep warm. When
the bareback rider returns from the ring he usually disrobes, takes a
bath and dons his ordinary attire; but the less important performers
must keep themselves in readiness to render any assistance which they
may be called upon to perform.

There is but little repose for the weary circus people during a season.
Frequently they stay but one day in a place, and the next town is
fifteen or twenty miles distant. All the properties must be packed
up, the helmets and cheap velvet, the tights and the tunics must be
stowed away and the journey made by night. The following day brings a
recurrence of the dangers and toil of circus life.

A clown who was importuned by some young ladies of Mill City, Iowa,
as they passed the dressing-tent, to let them in, said he'd do it
for a kiss from each. There were four in the party and they held a
brief consultation when they came back and wanted to know if one kiss
wouldn't do.

"Yes, one each," said Mr. Merryman, who had his paint on and looked
anything but pretty.

Again they consulted, and at last agreed. They were respectable young
ladies and were slow to do anything that might compromise them, still
they kissed the clown, who lifted a flap of the tent and passed in each
as she paid the osculatory fee. The kisses did his old heart good,
and when he went into the ring so fresh and happy did he feel that he
actually got off a new and good joke, which is an extraordinary thing
for a clown. The clown is pretty much the whole show to the little
folks, and there are many grown people who cherish fondly the childish
admiration they had had for the retailer of old jokes and singer of
poor comic songs. He talks and jumps around as lightly as if he were a
young man; but often if the reader could be around when the chalk and
the streaks of black and red have been washed off he would see that
the light-hearted laugh-provoker is an old man wrinkled and gray, and
that he is to be pardoned for not being able to say anything funny that
would be new at his time of life. I like everything about a clown, his
clothes, his comical hat, his old jokes, his poor voice and his worse
songs. He tries to amuse other people's children, and therefore I am
glad when I hear he has children of his own, as the following touching
story told in verse has something to say about:--


THE CLOWN'S BABY.

    It was out on the western frontier--
      The miner's, rugged and brown,
    Were gathered around the posters;
      The circus had come to town!
    The great tent shone in the darkness,
      Like a wonderful palace of light,
    And rough men crowded the entrance--
      Shows didn't come every night.

    Not a woman's face among them!
      Many a face that was bad,
    And some that were only vacant,
      And some that were very sad;
    And behind the canvas curtain,
      In a corner of the place,
    The clown with chalk and vermilion,
      Was "making up" his face.

    A weary-looking woman,
      With a smile that still was sweet,
    Sewed on a little garment,
      With a candle at her feet.
    Pantaloons stood ready and waiting;
      It was the time for the going on,
    But the clown in vain searched wildly--
      The "property baby" was gone!

    He murmured, impatiently hunting,
      "It's strange that I cannot find--
    There! I've looked in every corner;
      It must have been left behind."
    The miners were stamping and shouting--
      They were not patient men;
    The clown bent over the cradle--
      "I must take you, little Ben!"

    The mother started and shivered,
      But trouble and want were near;
    She lifted her baby gently,
      "You'll be very careful, dear?"
    "Careful! You foolish darling--"
      How tenderly it was said!
    What a smile shone through the chalk and paint--
      "I love each hair of his head!"

    The noise rose into an uproar,
      Misrule for the time was king;
    The clown, with a foolish chuckle,
      Bolted into the ring.
    But as with a squeak and a flourish,
      The fiddles closed their tune,
    "You hold him as if he was made of glass!"
      Said the clown to Pantaloon.

    The jovial follow nodded:
      "I've a couple myself," he said;
    "I know how to handle 'em, bless you!
      Old fellow, go ahead!"
    The fun grew fast and furious,
      And not one of all the crowd
    Had guessed the baby was alive,
      When he suddenly laughed aloud.

    Oh, that baby-laugh! It was echoed
      From the benches with a ring,
    And the roughest customer there sprung up
      With "Boys, it's a real thing!"
    The ring was jammed in a minute,
      Not a man that did not strive
    For "A shot at holding the baby--"
      The baby that was "alive!"

    He was thronged by kneeling suitors
      In the midst of the dusty ring,
    And he held his court right royally--
      The fair little baby-king--
    Till one of the shouting courtiers,
      A man with a bold, hard face,
    The talk of miles of the country,
      And the terror of the place,

    Raised the little king on his shoulder,
      And chuckled, "Look at that!"
    As the baby fingers clutched his hair.
      Then "Boys, hand round that hat!"
    There never was such a hat-full
      Of silver, and gold, and notes;
    People are not always penniless
      Because they don't wear coats.

    And then, "Three cheers for the baby!"
      I tell you those cheers were meant;
    And the way in which they were given
      Was enough to raise the tent.
    And there was a sudden silence,
      And a gruff old miner said:
    "Come boys, enough of this rumpus!
      It's time it was put to bed."

    So looking a little sheepish,
      But with faces strangely bright,
    The audience, somewhat lingeringly,
      Flocked out into the night.
    And the bold-faced leader chuckled,
      "He wasn't a bit afraid!
    He's as game as he is good-looking--
      Boys, that was a show that paid!"

The public at large has but a very vague idea of how a circus is run,
and the people, besides the managers and regular employees, who make
a living by it. When the tenting season is about to open, a class of
people, who in the winter hang about the saloons, variety theatres and
gambling hells of the large cities, start for the circuses to bid for
what are known as the "privileges," which are, as a rule, understood to
embrace not only the candy and lemonade-stands and the side-shows, but
all sorts of gambling devices by which the unsuspecting countryman is
fleeced out of his earnings, or borrowings, as the case may be. Monte
men, thimble-riggers, sweat-cloth dealers, and all classes of gamblers
and thieves who have not yet risen to the dignity of "working" the
watering-places and summer resorts, look upon the route of a circus
as their legitimate field of operation. The circus proprietor who
rents the lot upon which his tent or tents are pitched has the right
to sublet such portions of the ground as he does not use, for such
purposes as he deems proper, and which will not make him personally
amenable to the laws for whatever crimes may be committed there. It has
been shown that in many cases the managers not only sell to gamblers
the privilege of locating on the ground and robbing the patrons of the
circus, but also receive a share of the ill-gotten wealth.

"There are," said Mr. Coup, the circus owner, to an interviewer, "lots
of shows with big bank accounts who have made their money by actually
robbing their patrons. They used to swindle on the seats, but that
is done away with now entirely, or nearly so. Of course, I am not at
liberty to mention names, but I could astonish you by designating shows
the managers of which have made the greater portion of their money in
this way. But a great trick which is being practised is this: A man is
sent ahead of the show who is not known to have any connection whatever
with it. In fact, he denies that he has anything to do with it, and yet
he is really employed by the managers. This man canvasses the town and
finds some man who has a big bank account and who is gullible enough
to confide in strangers. The agent makes his acquaintance, gets into
his confidence, and then with a great show of secrecy informs him how
he can make a pile of money when the circus comes along. The innocent
citizen bites at the bait and is steered against a gambling scheme
either inside or outside of the tent, and loses often large sums of
money. Perhaps he is a man whose social standing prevents him from
making his loss known, or, more frequently, he fails to suspect the
agent, who blusters around and declares that he, too, has lost money
on the scheme. And thus the show goes from town to town, making almost
as much by stealing from its patrons as it does at the ticket wagon.
There are shows which make from $30,000 to $40,000 a season in this way
and that goes a good way toward paying for their printing, and is quite
an item. I have made war on these fellows for years and am determined
to keep it up. If I cannot run a show without having a lot of gambling
schemes attached to it, why then I'll stop running a show. I abolished
everything of the kind last season, even down to the selling of
lemonade in the seats. I allow lemonade to be sold now, but the men are
watched carefully and the first one caught swindling my patrons, off
goes his head."

"Do you not find it difficult to keep gamblers and confidence men away
from your show?"

"I did at first, but it is now known among them that I will not allow
it and they keep away. My life has been threatened several times just
on account of this, but I still live and still propose to keep up the
fight. I have been offered as high as $1,000 a week for the privilege
to rob my patrons by camp-followers, so you can see that the privilege
is worth something. In Georgia a gang threatened publicly to kill me
on sight for refusing to let them hang around my tents, but some of my
men went for them and cleaned them out very effectually. The side-show
privileges are sold only on condition that no gambling shall be carried
on in the tents and that the patrons shall not be swindled in any way.
The side-shows can be made to pay without robbery. Last season the
side-shows that traveled with my show, made $75,000, which was more
than I made."




CHAPTER XL.

ACROBATICS AND EQUESTRIANISM.


Nearly every man connected with the ring work of a circus is an acrobat
of one kind or other. His ability may be limited to turning a single
somersault, still he will be brought into the arena with the rest of
the company and opportunity will be afforded him to do his best. It is
not expected, however, to recruit the ranks from such a class. Children
must be trained to the profession, and a long and arduous training it
requires. If their parents are professionals their studies will be all
the more severe, and cuffs and blows will be the only encouragement
given their struggling children. Fathers have been known to beat their
sons, to kick them in the presence of the audience, and to add other
and severer punishment when the young acrobat reaches home. The Society
for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children could find plenty to do in
preventing brutal parents from abusing their little folks, if not in
putting an end entirely to the swift and rough training that boys are
put through in order that they may be hired out or leased to circus
managers. In New York I understand that broken-down ring performers
have schools in which boys are taught every branch of the circus
business, just as there are riding schools where young men and young
women may learn pad-riding and go even as far as riding bareback. The
schools for acrobats are usually conducted by cruel, heartless fellows
who urge the pupils to their tasks with a club, and while forgetting
to say a kind word when the pupil has done well, will never fail to say
a harsh one when any mistake has been made. These places are filled
up with all the appliances of a gymnasium--bars, ropes, weights,
trapezes, tight-rope, etc. Circus managers in want of talent for small
shows going South or West apply here and take their choice of the boys.
A bargain is quickly made and the child, for many of them are still
mere children, goes forth to join the throng engaged from April until
October in amusing the public in the sawdust arena.

[Illustration: BAREBACK RIDING.]

When the child gets into the circus ring there need be hope of no
further sympathy. Its task is set and must be done at all hazards. A
failure one time to accomplish a feat must be followed by another and
another attempt until the feat is at last satisfactorily presented.
Olive Logan was at a circus performance at Cincinnati at which she
witnessed an extraordinary instance of cruelty on the part of a
circus proprietor to a child rider. The circus was owned and managed
by a certain clown. The clown-proprietor, Miss Logan goes on to say,
introduced a little girl to the audience, saying that she would
exhibit her skill in riding. He stated that the horse was somewhat
unused to the ring and if it should happen that the rider fell, no
one need entertain any apprehension of serious accident, as the arena
was soft and injury would be impossible. It was surely an unhappy
introduction for the child, and calculated to fill her with fear and
doubt. The child whirled rapidly round the ring two or three times,
using neither rein nor binding strap. She stood on one foot, then
changed to the other. After this she was called upon to jump the
stretchers. Had her horse been well trained, the feat would have been
no very difficult one. But she became entangled in the cloth and fell
to the ground, under the horse's feet. She was placed again on the back
of the horse and compelled once more to try the feat. Her fall had
not given her new confidence and she fell a second time. Evidently
much against her inclination and in spite of her trembling and her
tears, nature's protest against barbarity, she was tossed again to her
place. But her nerve had gone. She was utterly demoralized. Judgment
of distance, and faith in herself were lost. Again she attempted to
execute the leap. Again she fell to the ground, striking heavily upon
her head. She rolled directly under the horse's feet and only by a
sheer chance escaped a terrible death. The audience,--more merciful
than those within the ring, by this time had been thoroughly aroused
and indignant. Cries and shouts were heard from all quarters: "Shame!
shame!" "That'll do!" "Take her out! take her out!" came up from every
side. It would not answer to disregard such commands, and with a smile
the ring master went to the child, raised her from the dust where she
lay, and led her, crying and sobbing, to the dressing-tent.

[Illustration: TRAPEZE.]

The men and women who perform at dizzy heights on the trapeze
and flying rings frequently meet with terrible accidents. Still
the difficulty of these feats is being constantly increased, and
performers, not satisfied with having their eyes open during their
perilous flight from one trapeze to another, envelope their heads in
sacks, and although not wholly blinding themselves, very materially
interfere with the vision, which in all such instances should not
be obstructed. A typical accident of the trapeze kind happened at a
performance of old John Robinson's circus at South Pueblo, Colorado, on
June 12, 1882. While the Alfredo Family were performing on the trapeze,
the stake which supports the rope pulled out of the ground, which had
been softened by the afternoon storm, and let the performers--three in
number, William, Lewis, and his wife, Emma Alfredo--suddenly to the
ground. The act is a sort of double bicycle and trapeze performance.
William propels a bicycle back and forth on a line stretched from pole
to pole, and Lewis and Emma perform on two trapeze-bars suspended from
the bicycle. When the stake pulled up last night the rope collapsed
just at the moment that Lewis was hanging by his feet from the lower
bar and Emma from the upper, both straight down, with arms folded. Emma
caught herself on the lower bar and the side ropes, but her husband
fell straight to the ground, alighting on the back of his head, the
fall being twelve or fourteen feet. He was at once removed to his
dressing-room, and the physicians who were summoned said that his spine
was injured. Half an hour later he was removed to a hotel, where he
died at four P. M., June 13th.

A gymnast who fell from a trapeze in New Orleans gave the following
account of his sensations: "Amid the sea of faces before me I looked
for a familiar one, but in vain, and, turning, I stepped back to the
rope by which we ascended to the trapeze, and going up hand over hand
was soon seated in my swinging perch. As I looked down I caught sight
of a face in one of the boxes, that at once attracted my attention.
It was that of a beautiful girl, with sweet blue eyes, and golden hair
falling unconfined over her shoulders in heavy, waving masses. Her
beautiful eyes, turned toward me, expressed only terror at the seeming
danger of the performer, and for the moment I longed to assure her
of my perfect safety, but my brother was by my side and we began our
performance. In the pauses for breath I could see that sweet face,
now pale as death, and the blue eyes staring wide open with fear, and
I dreaded the effect of our finish, which--being the drop act--gives
the uninitiated the impression that both performers are about to be
dashed headlong to the stage. Having completed the double performance
I ascended to the upper bar, and, casting off the connect, we began
our combination feats. While hanging by my feet in the upper trapeze,
my brother being suspended from my hands (the lower bar being drawn
back by a super), I felt a slight shock, and the rope began slowly
to slip past my foot. My heart gave a grand jump, and then seemed to
stop, as I realized our awful situation. The lashing which held the bar
had parted, the rope was gliding round the bar, and in another moment
we should be lying senseless on the stage. I shouted 'under' to the
terrified 'super,' who instantly swung the bar back to its place, and
I dropped my brother on it as the last strand snapped and I plunged
downward. I saw the lower bar darting toward me and I made a desperate
grasp at it, for it was my last chance. I missed it! Down through
the air I fell, striking heavily on the stage. The blow rendered me
senseless and my collar bone was broken. I was hurried behind the
scenes, and soon came to my senses. My first thought was that I must go
back and go through my performance at once, and I actually made a dash
for the stage--but I was restrained, and it was many weeks before I was
able to perform again."

[Illustration: MDME. LASALLE.]

The circus-goers of a decade ago were accustomed to tight-rope and
slack-wire performances in the ring, when old men and young women,
emulative of the celebrated Blondin, went through some wonderful
evolutions in mid-air. Now the tight-rope and loose wire have both
almost entirely disappeared from the ring, and only in the small
shows are they given a place in the programme. Still there are many
excellent performers in this line who find employment on the variety
stage among specialty people. The best of these is Zanfretti, the
pantomime clown, who though an old man displays wonderful agility
when with balance-pole in hand he finds himself at the half-way point
on his rope. Ladies who have taken to the hempen path have attained
prominence as rope-walkers. One of the most beautiful and at the
same time dangerous, of the performances that the small shows offer
to their audiences is that of Madame Lasalle, who places her little
eight-year-old daughter in a wheelbarrow filled with flowers, and on a
rope thirty feet above the ground without net beneath and with nothing
but hard ground to receive both in case of a fall, trundles the barrow
over a long rope while the people below look up in breathless fear
lest the barrow tip and a dreadful accident result before the feat is
accomplished. Tight-rope walking, however, is not nearly so difficult
as it appears to be. The performer needs steady nerves, a cool eye,
firm limbs and a balance-pole, the last-named article being the most
essential. Training is required, of course, but it is not of the
rigorous and protracted kind that other feats demand.

The training of riders is not so difficult or attended with such
dangers, although it is perilous enough. If a circus rider has a son or
daughter he wishes to bring up for the ring he will begin by carrying
the child, as soon as it is strong enough, upon the horse with him,
thus accustoming it to standing upon the animal in motion; but if a
boy or girl is taken up at an age when it is no longer easy to carry
him around the ring on the back of a horse, he is put in training with
what the circus people call "the mechanic." This is a beam extending
out from a pivoted centre-pole and having a rope hanging down at the
edge of the ring with a strap at the end which is fastened around the
pupil's waist. The rope is long enough to allow the pupil to stand
upon the back of an animal, and by means of its support he is kept in
an upright position until he gets accustomed to the motion of a horse,
and is prevented from falling should he miss his footing. He begins
with a pad on the back of a gentle animal, and keeps on with "the
mechanic" until he is able to stand alone on the horse, from which time
on the pad is discarded and the pupil goes it bareback. Ed. Showles, a
good rider and prominent in his line, told me that it takes about six
months to break a boy in so that he will be able to ride fairly, but
that a girl may be taught in three months.

This training goes on during the winter months while the circus is in
quarters. A small ring is always a department of the winter quarters,
and in this the trained animals are kept in practice and new ones are
broken in, the whip being freely used upon all in giving them their
lessons. A horse that is intended for the educated class after having
acquired the ordinary manœuvres, for instance, must learn to get up
on his hind legs and paw the air with the fore legs, as we see them
in pictures of the Ukraine stallions, etc. To do this the animal must
have his haunches strengthened. By whipping the fore legs he is made
gradually to rise on the hind ones. The horse finds it difficult at
first, but judicious whipping gets him up in the air at last and the
sight of the threatening whip keeps him there as long as there is
strength in his haunches to keep him up.

[Illustration: ANNIE LIVINGSTONE.]

"The work of the leading equestrienne is one of the most laborious
in the whole range of the circus profession. It requires physical
courage of the highest order, combined with great power of endurance
and a capacity for adopting oneself to a constant change of scene and
surrounding. People who witness only the brilliant performances in
the ring in an atmosphere laden with light and music, little dream of
the wearisome toil and drudgery which precede them."

The speaker was Miss Lilly Deacon, a fair-haired English lady, with the
form of a Juno, who arrived in this country from London sometime ago
to fill an engagement as leading equestrienne in Forepaugh's circus.
As she appeared in the parlor in an interview with a Philadelphia
reporter, she might naturally have been taken for the preceptress of
some fashionable English boarding-school, or the daughter of some stiff
old country squire of Kent or Sussex--or anybody, in fact, rather than
the daring rider whose performances have bewildered and startled the
circus-going multitude of London, Paris, and Berlin. In feature and
manner her appearance was that of the English gentlewoman, while her
conversation throughout revealed a delicacy of thought and expression
common only to the well-bred lady.

[Illustration: CIRCUS RIDERS.]

"The training necessary to success in equestrian performances,"
continued Miss Deacon, "is monotonous in the extreme and in some parts
very dangerous. None but those in rugged health ever withstand it, and
no one without a perfect physical organization should undertake it. The
ordinary exercises of the riding-school are trifles as compared with
the tasks imposed in professional training. When a woman has obtained
all the knowledge to be acquired in a riding-school, she has only got
the rudiments of real equestrian art. She must then enter the circus
ring and familiarize herself with the duties required of her there. She
must be prepared to endure falls and bruises without number, together
with frequent scoldings and corrections from the instructors. No
woman, unless she be possessed of extraordinary natural skill, ought
to appear in the ring before an audience until she has graduated from
a riding-school, and then practised in the ring four or five hours
every day for at least six months. Those six months will be a period of
torture and weariness to her, but she must undergo them or run the risk
of almost certain failure and humiliation upon her first appearance in
public.

"The best equestrian instructor in Europe--in fact the only one of
established reputation--is M. Salmonsky of Berlin. He is one of the
grandest horsemen in the world, and in his great circus includes some
of the finest stock on the continent. He saw me first in London, my
native place, many years ago when I was performing with my brothers
and sisters in Henley's Regent Street circus, and offered to take me
with him to Berlin and complete my training. I accepted, and entered
his circus at the German capital, where I received the most careful
instruction he could give me.

"M. Salmonsky would send me into the ring with his most spirited
horses every day and stand by to direct my exercises. Sometimes I
thought I should never survive the terrible discipline, and often
thought I should go back to London and content myself with being a
second-rate rider, but the kindness of my good old instructor softened
the innumerable bumps and bruises I received, and I at last triumphed.
Emperor William and the crown prince attended the circus the night I
made my debut, and complimented me formally and personally from their
box.

"M. Salmonsky's course of training is very rigid, and that accounts for
its thoroughness. The pupil must surrender wholly to the instructor and
become very much as a ball of wax in his hands. At the outset, however,
the scholar must obtain complete mastery of her horses. Fear is a
quality utterly hostile to successful equestrianism, and unless the
pupil can banish it at the start, she had better give up her ambition
and abandon the profession. She will never succeed so long as she is
afraid either of herself or her horses.

"But, as I said before, no one unacquainted with the dangerous
preparatory instruction of an equestrienne has any proper estimate of
the toil and weariness which her performances represent. One never
knows the boundless capacity of the human frame for pains and aches
until one has gone into training for circus-riding. What, with unruly
horses, uncomfortable saddles, and the violent exercise involved,
five or six hours of practice every day for months is certain to do
one of two things--it either kills the pupil or brings her up to the
perfection of physical womanhood. The hours for practice adopted by M.
Salmonsky were in the forenoon--generally from eight to twelve, with,
perhaps, another hour or two in the evening. To withstand this course
one must dress loosely and become a devotee to plain living and the
laws of hygiene. Any neglect of those principles, or any great loss of
sleep usually results in broken health and professional failure.

"A great many persons who have the idea that the life of a circus
star is a happy one--that it is a round of gorgeous tulle, tinsel,
and ring-master-embellished splendor--would be sadly shocked if they
could get a glimpse of the real thing. These people are mistaken. It is
really a life of hard work at pretty much all hours of the day. When
the splendid Mlle. Peerless isn't speeding around the ring, lashing
her spirited bareback horse to fury, amid the plaudits of admiring
thousands, she is mending her tights, stitching tinsel on her costume,
anointing her bruises with balsam, or practising. The practice of
the circus rider is like the rehearsal of the actor, only more so,
for while the actor has only to rehearse until his first performance
and then can go on playing a part without further trouble, the rider
must put in an hour or two every day to keep her joints limber and her
muscles in proper trim. But for this daily practice the performances
of our circuses would be the theatre of many a tragedy instead of the
scenes of mirth and gladness that they are.

The fascination that the circus has for people who know nothing about
its hardships, is illustrated in the case of a Georgia lady, who lived
in luxury, and whose husband was numbered among the most prominent of
the State's citizens. She became imbued with a desire that she would
like to sport tights and gauze dresses, and whirl about the ring on a
spirited horse, so she struck up acquaintance with an equestrian, who
happened to come along with a fly-by-night show, and eloped with him.
The husband followed the show to Texas some months afterwards, and had
an interview with his wife, who had became an equestrienne in a small
way, doing a pad-riding act in each performance. An interview with the
lady failed to make her see her folly. The husband now grew desperate,
went away and hired a lot of cowboys whom he took to the show with the
understanding that as soon as Mlle. Eulalia (the wife's adopted name)
put in an appearance they were to rush forward, and seizing her carry
her from the tent. When the lady appeared and had been lifted upon the
horse by the clown, and the ring-master was touching up the heels of the
animal to get him into a funeral jog, the husband and cowboys advanced.
The husband seized his wife, dragged her from the horse, and while
the cowboys fought back the performers and attaches he got her into a
carriage and drove her away, leaving the audience in the wildest state
of excitement. Kind words and gentle treatment brought the woman back
to her senses, and she is now in her Georgia home and does not want any
more circus experience.

[Illustration: DAN. RICE.]

A Paris correspondent tells us that the funeral of that charming circus
rider, Emilie Loisset, who was killed in April, 1882, was a Parisian
event. The poor girl had long inhabited the United States, and had
the freedom of manner and self-respect which so often distinguish the
American young lady. She was on horseback one of the most graceful
creatures imaginable. The figure was lithe, but without meagerness.
Her poses in the saddle were simply exquisite, and they appeared
unstudied. The features were elegantly formed, and the eyes expressed a
brave, kind soul. Emilio Loisset was more popular than Sarah Bernhardt
had ever been in Paris. Her less successful rivals in the circus were
brought by her exceeding amiability to pardon her public triumphs. She
did not seem ever to excite jealousy. On the days and nights on which
she performed the circus was crowded with fashionable people. There
was no amount of wealth that she might not have possessed had she not
been a proud, strong-willed, self-respecting girl. She had no carriage
and used to walk from the hippodrome to the Rue Oberkampf, where she
had a small lodging on the fifth floor. A number of aristocratic and
plutocratic admirers used to escort her to the door, through which none
of them were allowed by her to pass. She aspired to create for herself
a happy home and to marry somebody whom she could love and esteem.
Her sister, Clotilde, is the morganatic wife of the Prince de Reuss,
brother of the German ambassador at Constantinople, and is looked up
to in her family circle. The admiration of the Empress Elizabeth for
Emilie was increased by the fact that the charming circus rider spurned
the address of the crown prince of Austria.

He was very much in love with her when she was in Germany, a couple of
years ago, and would have forsworn marriage if she would have consented
to be his Dubarry. She did not like the young man, and told him so.
The empress, when she was here, used to make appointments to ride in
the Bois with Emilie. Her majesty thought the ecuyere charming to look
at, but wanting in firmness of hand. The horse on which she rode with
imperial Elizabeth in the shaded alleys of the Bois was the one that
occasioned her death by rolling over on her and driving the crutch of
the saddle into her side. The august lady noticed the hardness of the
brute's mouth, and the teasing and at the same time irresolute way in
which Emilie held her bridle.

Emilie Loisset aimed at classic purity of style. There was nothing
sensational in her manner. Her imperial friend Elizabeth thought her
the most ladylike person she had seen in Paris. Her gestures were
simple, her address amiable, and there was seriousness even in her
smiles. Members of the Jockey Club spoke to her hat in hand. Her death
was entirely due to the hard mouth of her horse. At a rehearsal the
horse turned round, made for the stable, and, finding the door shut
against him, reared up on his hind legs. Balance was lost, the horse
rolled over, and the crutch of the saddle smashed in the ribs upon the
lungs and heart. Poor Emilie had the courage in this state to walk to
the infirmary, and when she was taken home to mount five flights of
stairs.




CHAPTER XLI.

A ROMANCE OF THE RING.


There is a great deal of romance in the life of a circus performer; and
as the theatrical world is often penetrated in search of subjects rich
in fiction, so, too, romancers enter the circus ring to find a hero or
heroine for an o'er-true tale. In a Western paper I found the following
pretty and touching story, which had evidently been copied from some
other paper without credit, and which, as it deals with circus life,
and particularly that feature of it we have just left--equestrianism--I
believe it will be found interesting, and in reproducing it regret that
I am unacquainted with the source whence it came, as the publication in
which it originally appeared certainly deserves mention:--

The North American Consolidated Circus was to show in Shadowville.
Shadowville was named after a legend of a haunted shadow that envelopes
the town after sunset; and long before the canvas flaps were drawn back
and the highly gilded ticket-wagon, with the "electric ticket seller"
was ready to change greenbacks for the red-backed "open sesame," the
ground and two streets leading to the lot were crowded with an anxious,
expectant, peanut-munching, chewing-gum-masticating collection. The
large posters and handbills announced in highly colored style the
arrival of "Miss Nannie Florenstein, the most wonderful bareback rider
in the known world!" while the little "gutter snipes" simply begged
the people to "wait for Miss Nannie Florenstein."

The "doors are thrown open," and in less than twenty minutes the
immense canvas is rising and falling with the concentrated respirations
of five thousand people. Such a crowd! Charles Dickens, Anthony
Trollope, or Bret Harte would have been in ecstacies at the curious
collection of faces, costumes, and vernacular, not to mention the
expressions of genuine enthusiasm or surprise at the entries into the
ring of even the sawdust rakers.

The band has ended its attempt at one of Strauss's waltzes, and the
master of ceremonies, Mr. Lunt, walks consequentially into the ring,
bowing to the vast concourse, who applaud at--they scarce know what.

"This way, Mr. Oliphant."

"Aye, aye, sir! 'Ere hi ham. Ah, sir! this bevy of smiling faces is
refreshing even to the sawdust. [Applause.] What shall we have now,
sir?" asks the jester (?) as he throws his hat in the air and catches
it on--the ground.

"Mr. Tom Karl."

"Not the tender singer, sir?"

"You mean tenor singer! No! The pad rider, sir."

"It's all the same, Mr. Lunt; but time's flying. Ah! here is Karl! Now,
then, Mr. Karl, that's the way I used to ride--(aside) in my mind."

And so it goes. One act after another, each one showing agility,
daring, and skill; while the old jester and ring master entertain the
crowd and rest the performers.

"Miss Nannie Florenstein, ladies and gentlemen, will now have the honor
of appearing before you in her wonderful bareback act--riding a wild,
untamed horse without either bridle, saddle or surcingle. An act never
before accomplished--although often attempted--by any lady in the
world! Miss Nannie Florenstein!"

A lithe, pretty little lady, with an anxious, careworn face, stepped
into the ring, and, acknowledging the applause of the audience, vaulted
lightly on the back of her black horse, and quicker than a flash of
lightning was off. Around and around the forty-two-foot circle she
goes, pirouetting, posturing, and doing a really graceful and wonderful
act.

She is what all the papers had claimed she would be. There is a
spirit of reckless daring flashing from her dark eyes as she jumps
"the banners," and even the old and stoical ring master watches her
anxiously as she attempts one act more daring than the rest--that
of standing on her tip-toes on the horse's hindquarters and slowly
pirouetting as the animal continues his mad career.

Suddenly she reels. She has lost her balance. Over she goes. Her head
has struck the ring board. A shriek of a thousand anxious voices rends
the air, and all is confusion.

She is bleeding, bleeding profusely from a cut in her forehead. A
hundred hands are ready to convey her to the dressing-tent.

A rough-hewn specimen of a man suddenly appears in their midst. Where
he came from or what moved him no one knows.

"Stand back! stand back, I say, and give the gal air! Do ye hear?"

Instinctively every one obeys him.

"Yere's a doctor. Doctor, this gal I know. 'Tend ter her, an' look ter
me for the perkisites."

A quiet, confident-looking gentleman, Dr. Adams, is already by her
side, stopping the flow of blood, and under his directions she is
conveyed to her dressing-tent, the miner, tall, athletic, and with
immense, sunburned beard, following anxiously in the rear.

The performance has been renewed and the crowd are forgetting the
accident, when the miner appears in the ring dragging after him a
performer, Monsieur La Forge, as he is called, "the strongest man in
the world," who resists with all his might the iron muscles that are
clinched like a vice on his collar.

A trapeze act is being performed, but all eyes are on the miner and
his victim, not one of the performers having interfered, as they all
dislike and fear La Forge for his bullying, bragadocio character.

"Leddies and gintlemin, this yere coyote am ther cause on that yere
young gal er falling. I knows 'em both. He wanted ter kill her. Yes,
yer did, ye skunk! He stole her when she war a chile from my sister. I
knowed him; I knowed her. He hearn I was coming ter-day and he sed that
he'd kill her. Lay down, yer he-bar! Lay down, I say.

"I was standing close on ter this ring when I seed him fire sumthing at
her. She turned her putty eyes to see what it wur and over she went.
Mister performers, ye'll 'scuse me fur interruptin' yer performances,
but I thought I'd let these yere know who this skunk is. Now, then,
Meester Ler Forgey, alias John Rafferty, what have yer got to say to my
statement?"

"Hang him! Hang him! Strangle him!" broke in the crowd as they left
their seats and rushed for the ring.

"Back! Back! Yer shan't hang him! Do yer hear? Ther fust man that
raises a finger to throttle him, I'll pile in that yere saw dust! Do
yer hear?"

His revolver levelled at the angry, grumbling crowd held them back.
They all knew him. All knew old Ned Struthers, the most daring and best
shot on the frontier; a man whom the redskins feared more than a whole
army of trained United States soldiers; a remnant of a race of men who
could settle the Indian question quicker, better, and with less expense
than a whole army of Indian whiskey-selling agents; a man who they knew
was dangerous and vindictive when aroused. So all kept their distance.

"Now, thin, yer goll-darned skunk, git up off yer knees! Git!"

"The doctor says Miss Florenstein is dying!" the ring master, pale and
breathless, announced as he ran into the ring.

"Dying, did yer say, Mister? Oh, yer mean rattlesnake! Pray she may
live--pray! Ef she dies, I'll hang yer scalp on her coffin! Do you
hear?"

Poor Rafferty, by the intervention of the sheriff, who had a free pass
to the show, and was present, was released from Ned Struthers's hold
and taken away to the lock-up while Ned hurried to the bedside of his
sister's child, Miss Nannie Florenstein.

She tossed and moaned upon her improvised bed of straw, an
anguish-stricken few around her; for she was loved by the company. Her
lustreless eyes would open appealingly, and looking with tear-bedimmed
expression at some familiar face near her, try to smile them a
recognition--a sad, painful recognition.

The doctor knelt beside her with one hand on her pulse and one on her
bandaged forehead, and as he noticed the weary, faint pulsation, would
shake his head, prophetic of her death.

The flaps of her tent are raised, and old Ned Struthers, hat in hand,
looks in, asking in a mute way permission to enter. The doctor sees him
and beckons him to her side.

Nannie hears his footstep as it crushes the straw beneath his weight,
and, slowly opening her eyes, looks at him in an indifferent,
inquisitive way. Suddenly they brighten; she closes them as if to
think--in a minute opens them with a glad smile of affectionate
recognition lighting up her handsome, pale face, raises her weak hand,
beckons him to her, and as he takes her little fingers into his brawny
palm she pulls him gently to her and whispers something in his ear. She
cannot speak loud.

Old Ned cannot keep back the tears as they slowly run down his bronzed
cheek and are lost in the shadow of his beard. He has now knelt beside
her and answers her whispered question.

"Yes, little un! I'm yer uncle--yer loving uncle! Get well, little un,
and I'll take care on yer." He could say no more.

She, poor little bruised body, turns to him a grateful smile of
affection, and again drawing him to her, kisses his wrinkled old
forehead, while the group who are silent witnesses of the scene turn
away their heads in silent sorrow.

"Say, Doctor, can't we move her to sum more kumfortable quarters?--to
ther hotel? Her aunty lives some twenty miles from yere, and I'll send
for her."

Again Nannie opened her eyes, looking anxiously at the doctor, but
a shadow darkened the tent opening and a young, handsome-faced man
enters; instantly her eyes meet his, and she beckons him to her, and
drawing him down to her side, whispers a few words in his ear. His face
brightens, and turning to Ned--who is curiously watching this last
scene--puts out a hard, muscular hand as he says:--

"Mr. Struthers, Nannie tells me you are her uncle. I am engaged to be
married to Nan."

Old Ned eyed him curiously and doubtingly as he replies:--

"Wal, sir! what Nan tells yer is gospel truth. I'm her uncle; but
about the other part of the bizness I ain't so sartin"--but seeing
Nan's troubled face appealingly turned to him, he continues: "But was
she right? Nan oughter be married. Ef she was she wouldn't be yere, a
jumping on bar horses' backs, he showing her--I mean, sir, she oughter
be at hum, and I'd do thar barback ridin' for ther crowd--thet is, our
leetle crowd, ter hum; but 'scuse me, we must move Nan--what's yer
bizness, sir?"

"I'm in the same business as Nan; we were brought up together, trained
together, and next week we were to be married."

"Together, I serpose?" laughingly answered Ned, as he saw Nan brighten
and smile at her intended's words.

Nan was carefully removed to a hotel, the proprietor of the circus
defraying all the necessary expenses of a large room and extra
attendance. Old Ned was about to start for his sister's, Nan's aunt,
to attend her, as the doctor had taken a more hopeful view of her
recovery if properly nursed, when he, entering the bar-room of the
hotel, preparatory to starting, was suddenly made aware that he was the
target of at least a dozen eyes, all staring with a perplexed gaze at
him. First he thought it might be something in his dress, but this he
quickly ascertained was not so; then he surveyed his face in the mirror
opposite. At last he got angry.

"What are ye all staring at? Do I owe enny on yer ennything, eh?" He
was defiant now.

"No, Mr. Struthers, you don't owe anybody here anything that I am aware
of! We have congregated here to congratulate you. We have heard you had
recovered your niece and your mine, and we come, as fellow-townsmen, to
congratulate you." It was the town justice who spoke.

"My neese, pardner, I've diskivered, but ther mine I wanter sell out
to-morrow, and----"

"Mr. Struthers, here's a telegram for you." A messenger boy handed him
a telegram.

"Read that fir me, jidge, will yer?" And he handed the telegram to the
justice of the peace.

"Mr. Struthers, it is an offer from Col. Allston, of San Francisco. He
says: 'I will give you three hundred thousand dollars and one quarter
share for your Red Gulch mine. Answer. Pay in cash.' That's all, sir,
only the news has been on the street for half an hour!"

"Wal, I declare that's prime news! Let's take a drink, boys. Squire,
you jist answer that tillygram, will yer? Tell Kurnel Allston I'll take
the offer, and he may send the cash yere. Say, boys, thet's gud news,
but I must tell my neese!"

"Mr. Struthers, before you go will you tell us about your niece?"

"Sartlingly! Yer see boys, abeout fifteen years agone my sister died
an' left har leetle one--Nannie was her name--left her with a widder
woman in 'Fresco. I war away in Nevady; hed only been gone three
months. The young un war only nine y'ars old, an' when I got thet news
I war struck dumb. Yer see, my sister hed heart disease. I started with
my pack mule fir 'Fresco, but whin I 'rived thar the young un and the
widder war gone. I hearn she hed gone to Brazzel with her husband, a
man named Rafferty, a sirkus performer, so I waited. Abeout thet time I
was takin sick with small-pox, and whin I got well I could not get no
news on thet young un, so I gave up thar trial. Abeout one month ago I
war at Red Gulch Canyon, er staking off my 'find,' whin Jim Parkins,
my ole pard, wrote me from San Yosea thet my leetle un war with this
yere sirkus, and thet her name was Nannie Florenstein. So I got on
thar trail, found this yere Rafferty hed her as his'n--or raether his
darter--got $200 a week fir her an' gave her nuthing, so I lit on him
yere to-day, drapped on him foul, and ther war wolf meat in the air.
But he crawled, an' now I'm going ter send him ter prison. I think he
can do more good breakin' stuns than performing on cannons--eh?"

The crowd--it was a crowd by the time he had finished--gave the old man
three rousing cheers and he escaped from them, hastening to Nannie's
room to find her wonderfully improved and able to sit up.

       *       *       *       *       *

The circus left Shadowville without "Miss Nannie Florenstein," and
to-day she has returned from a village church a blooming bride, "Frank
Grace, the celebrated bareback rider," being her happy husband.

Old Ned occupies a seat in their carriage.

"Uncle, you have made me a happy woman and Frank a happy man."

"Yas, leetle un, I serpose so. It is better than bar'-back riding,
ain't it?"

"Yes, uncle. But how can I thank you for all the wealth you have
showered on me, and for the home you have bought us?" again asked Nan,
as she kissed his happy face.

"Wall, leetle un, I don't kinder want eny thanks, only plese don't--I
mean ef yer hev eny children, leetle un, don't trust 'em ter eny
widders ter sell 'em out ter sirkus people fur bar'-back ridin'."

"You may be certain of that Uncle Struthers," answered Frank, as he
kissed his bride.

"Wall, I hope so. Enyhow, if yer do, see they doesn't fall from thar
horse's back into a rich uncle's pocket--eh, you little pet!" And the
carriage stopped in front of their new home, happy, bright and cheerful.

[Illustration: A HUMAN PYRAMID.]




CHAPTER XLII.

LEAPING AND TUMBLING.


One of the great features of all travelling tent-shows and, indeed, in
the long years a very prominent feature of the legitimate show when
juggling, tumbling and things of that kind were either interspersed
between the acts of a tragedy, or filled the intermission between the
tragedy and farce, was the acrobatic artist, the athlete, the gymnast,
or whatever else you may feel like calling him. At the beginning of
this century there were several renowned acrobats, and the number has
increased to such an extent--and the general desire for exhibitions of
physical skill--that acrobatics have taken possession of many fields.
The song and dance man aims to introduce as much as possible of it into
his act or sketch, and even the equestrian and equestrienne attempts
and succeeds in combining perilous somersaulting with skilful riding,
and the nearer the performer goes towards breaking his neck the better
the people seem to like it.

The athlete who displayed his prowess or skill in the arenas of ancient
Rome or Athens was a much more important personage than the circus
performer of to-day. It was the passionate love of manly sports which
produced the matchless Greek form, the acme of physical perfection.
The successful athlete, acrobat, or charioteer of two thousand years
ago was a popular hero, and his triumphs, loves, and career were
immortalized in poetry and song. A successful athlete was then of
more importance than the congressman of to-day. And yet the modern
athlete, while occupying a much lower social scale than the ancient
practitioner, is just as strong, and the acrobat of to-day is even
more skilful than his classic predecessor. The circus performer thinks
nothing of executing feats which no later than a century ago were
deemed impossible.

[Illustration]

Nearly every man and boy who appears in the circus arena now-a-days is
counted a member of the corps that does both grand and lofty tumbling.
In small shows the corps of leapers and tumblers is increased by
the addition of several dummies who can do little more than turn a
hand-spring or a forward somersault either on the sawdust or from
the spring-board. Many of the best acrobats have begun their studies
in the open streets by walking on their hands or hammering their
heels against the bare bricks in somersaults or hand-springs; others
have been educated in the ring following their fathers and sometimes
grandfathers into the arenic profession. From the ranks of these two
classes some of the best acrobats and athletes have sprung. I can
recall several very good leapers and tumblers, whose earliest efforts
were witnessed and wondered at in some vacant lot or friendly stable
yard--where spring-boards were improvised and feats as dangerous as
"revolving twice in the air without alighting on their feet"--as the
ring master usually announces this act, in his most grandiloquent
style--were attempted at the peril of young and frail necks. So too
with many horizontal bar and trapeze performers. But to come back to
the leapers and tumblers. The band gives a flourish and in they troop
for the "ground act." They form in a row, and bow to the audience and
then away each one whirls in a hand-spring and front somersault. Then
they retire and singly, the men begin to tumble backward and forward
across and about the ring, heads and feet are kept in a whirl until
the final effort is reached, when the clown, who is frequently as
good an artist in the business as the rest of his tumbling confreres,
chases the swiftest of the number around the ring, the clown winding
him up while the latter rolls like a wheel, in back hand-springs along
the inner edge of the ring. A short interval, and the leapers come
in,--the same men as those who have done the tumbling,--bow, and retire
to follow each other rapidly down an inclined plane, bound from the
spring-board, and after a forward somersault land safely and gracefully
in the soft mattress beyond. One, two, three, four, and five horses are
brought in and placed in front of the spring-board while the mattress
is drawn farther away. As the number of horses increases and the
peril and distance grow greater, the number of leapers decrease till
at last three appear, or perhaps more horses are added to the equine
line, the mattress is placed at the farther end of the ring and the
ring-master--sometimes it is a lecturer like Harry Evarts, the "little
Grant orator," of Coup's show for the past and present season--mounts a
pedestal near the entrance, and with stentorian voice remarks: "Ladies
and gentlemen, Mr. Batchellor, the champion leaper of the world, will
now throw a double somersault over nineteen horses [sometimes fewer
elephants are employed]--that is to say, the gentleman will revolve
twice in the air before alighting on his feet on the mattress--a feat
that no other performer in this or any other country can accomplish.
Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Batchellor," and Mr. Batchellor, who is an
excellent leaper, and shares the championship with Frank Gardner,
formerly of Cole's show, but now with Barnum, makes the leap in a
clever and comparatively easy manner.

This difficult feat, never executed, it is asserted, till within
the past one hundred years, can now be witnessed at almost every
first-class circus performance in this country--but not always for
the same distance attained by Messrs. Batchellor and Gardner. Forty
years ago the British performer who could throw a double somersault
was looked on as a wonder. The writer, some thirty-three years ago,
saw Tomkinson, a famous British clown and acrobat, execute this feat
in Franconi's circus, then stationed for the season at Edinburg,
Scotland. It was the same Franconi who afterward managed the hippodrome
in New York in 1863-4, and the company was booked as first-class in
every respect. The double somersault was performed by Tomkinson at his
benefit, and the announcement of the then great feat packed the wooden
building to suffocation. When the ring-master had made the preliminary
speech, and Tomkinson retired up the steep incline which terminated in
the spring-board, every heart stood still. A quick, impetuous rush down
the board, a bound high in the air, a slow revolution and the gymnast
descended nearly to the ground. It seemed impossible to do it, but in
the last six feet the curled up body turned once more, and Tomkinson
alighted on the big, soft mattress on his feet, but staggering. He
was prevented from falling by the ring-master, and as he turned to go
inside, Franconi, the enthusiastic French manager, patted him warmly on
the back, amid the applause of the vast audience. It was a rare feat
in those days. Tomkinson and the few other British double somersault
performers did it only at infrequent intervals.

In this country Costella, a noted circus leaper, made it more difficult
by clearing a number of horses at the same time. But soon a number
of acrobats were able to follow his example, and even excel him in
height and distance. Nowadays a circus acrobat who cannot do a double
somersault is not considered anything but an ordinary performer unless
he can do other sensational and original feats. Last year Barnum had
a corps of acrobats, of whom seven performed double somersaults every
night during the season. John Robinson has five men who can do it.
The most surprising and unexcelled feat of double somersault throwing
was that of the Garnella Brothers, who performed it in variety halls
and circuses a few years ago. Standing on his brother's shoulders the
younger Garnella sprang up and revolved twice, landing again on the
shoulders. When it is considered that the double somersault by other
performers is accomplished by a short spurt, a spring-board, and no
restriction as to the spot of alighting, the feat of young Garnella
must be classed among the unprecedented marvels of the acrobatic art.

The triple somersault is a dream of every young and ambitious acrobat.
It requires phenomenal dexterity of body, and is known to be so
dangerous that few have even attempted it. Fame and fortune awaits any
performer who can do it, say twenty times in one tenting season. Were
it not that circus managers know that the feat, or even the attempt, if
repeated a limited number of times, will certainly result in a broken
neck, they could well afford to pay the performer $10,000 to $20,000
for a season; and were it not, too, a proven fact, it would seem that
the laws of gravitation and the limitations of physical dexterity
forbade the turning of a triple somersault except by accident. In
turning a double somersault off a spring-board, it is necessary to make
a leap at an angle of about thirty degrees to obtain the necessary
"ballast" or impetus to turn twice. If an almost perpendicular leap
is made, the leaper would not have leverage enough to turn. In order
to make the double somersault the performer has to leap from the
spring-board with all his might to get the proper angle as well as to
attain a sufficient height, so that he may have time to turn twice over
before alighting. The same conditions govern the triple somersault,
only it is necessary to go about one-third higher into the air.

An American named Turner accomplished a triple somersault once in this
country and again in England. He tried it a third time and broke his
neck. It is claimed that with this exception and the exception of Bob
Stickney, of John Robinson's show, and Sam Reinhardt, an ex-leaper, no
acrobat has been successful. The skeptic may say triple somersaults may
be accomplished by the aid of higher and more powerful spring-boards
than those in use, but that would merely change the angle, and the
result would be the same. Of course the board could be placed high
enough, but the specific gravity of the performer's body would be
increased while descending. The height is not the only trouble. If it
was only height, such men as Stickney, Batchellor, Gardner and one or
two others, by improved appliances and practice would overcome that
difficulty. But after the double somersault is accomplished and the
performer is ready to turn again, he "loses his catch" or the control
of his body, and is governed in his descent by gravitation alone. His
head being heavier than his feet, he is very apt to light on it first
and break his neck.

The first recorded attempt to throw a triple somersault in this country
was made by a performer in Van Amburgh's circus at Mobile, Alabama, in
1842. He broke his neck. Another attempt was made in London, England,
in 1846. It was made in Astley's amphitheatre, then leased to Howe
& Cushing, the American managers. In this company was M. J. Lipman,
a fine vaulter, Levi J. North, now in Brooklyn, New York, a famous
equestrian; the late William O. Dale, a native of Cincinnati, who died
here, blind and broken down, and who was an acrobat and equestrian of
great reputation, and Wm. J. Hobbes, a fine leaper. It was previously
announced that Hobbes would attempt a triple somersault, and the house
was jammed. He tried it, and was instantly killed. The next to try
it was John Amor, who was born under the roof of Dan Rice's father's
domicile, near Girard, Pennsylvania. Amor travelled for years in this
country with Dan Rice's circus, and in that day was considered the
greatest gymnast in America, if not in the world. He is said to be
the first performer in America to turn a double somersault over four
horses. In 1859 he went to England and travelled with a circus all
through the united kingdom. In the same year he attempted to turn a
triple somersault at the Isle of Wight, but landed on his forehead and
broke his neck.

Billy Dutton, it is said, performed the great feat while a member of
Lake's circus, at Elkhorn, Illinois, in 1860, at a rehearsal, in the
presence of John Lawton, the famous clown, now with Robinson's circus.
Dutton was ambitious to have it to say he did it, and did not make the
attempt with the intention of repeating it. He made the leap from a
high spring-board. Dutton said then he would not try it again, and that
his lighting upon his feet was an accident, as he could not control his
body after turning the second time. Frank Starks, who was well known in
Cincinnati, undertook the feat at the fair grounds in Indianapolis in
1870, for a wager of $100. In the first attempt he turned three times,
but alighted in a sitting posture. Every one was satisfied with the
result, and the money was tendered him. He proudly refused it, saying
he would repeat it, and light upon his feet before he felt sufficiently
justified in taking the $100. He did repeat it, but struck on his head,
dislocating his neck, and death resulted a few hours afterward. Bob
Stickney accomplished the great feat when fourteen years of age, while
practising in a gymnasium on Fourteenth Street, New York. William
Stein, an attache of Robinson's circus, was one of the persons who held
the blanket for him to alight upon. Stickney says he believes he could
do it again, but would not attempt it for less than $10,000, being
fully convinced that the chances for his final exit from the arena
would be good on that occasion. Sam Reinhardt, a former leaper, now
a saloon-keeper at Columbus, when with the Cooper & Bailey Circus at
Toledo, in 1860, not being satisfied with turning double somersaults,
tried to add another revolution. He turned twice and a half, alighting
on the broad of his back, and was disabled for a short period. The
fact that a triple somersault was ever accomplished before a circus
audience, after due announcement, and under the same conditions as
double somersaults are performed--namely, landing on a mattress--may be
seriously doubted. The best informed circus men say that it cannot be
done with anything even like comparative safety except in the sheets,
a blanket held by a number of men being used to catch the alighting
performer. It is claimed, also, that it has never been accomplished
except in that way.

[Illustration: BICYCLE RIDING EXTRAORDINARY.]




CHAPTER XLIII.

AN ADVENTURE WITH GIANTS.


I was in the office of the old _Evening Post_, at St. Louis one
afternoon in 1879, when it was invaded by Capt. M. Y. Bates and wife,
the tallest married couple in the world. They were travelling with
Cole's circus, and by invitation of the managing editor, who wanted
them interviewed, they visited the newspaper office. A very small
reporter had been assigned to do the talking, and he waited patiently
around the establishment until a carriage drove up to the door and a
shout went up, "Here they come," at the sound of which the interviewer
hurriedly made for the waste-basket which was under the table. Whether
the giant and giantess saw the diminutive reporter or not they kept on
coming in, and the scribe saw no other way out of it than to dive into
the ample recesses of the basket, and nestle upon a bed of school-girl
poetry, statesmen's essays, and applications from last year's and the
coming year's college graduates, for managing editorship. There is a
barbaric sesquepedalianism (which is a good long word to ring into
a chapter about six-storied people) and a prevailing atmosphere of
suffocation in such a waste-basket; nevertheless, the tiny reporter
crouched closer as the Brobdignaggian people approached with a rabble
that noised their heels upon the floor, their tongues against the
roofs of their mouths, and that made things look and sound as if all
the quarreling powers of Europe had set their combined forces down
in the _Evening Post_ office for the special purpose of driving the
senses of its whole staff out through the top of the building. But all
this was seraphic bliss compared with the awful moment when the giant
captain deliberately sat down on the table just over the waste-basket.
It would take a million horse-power jackscrew, I should think, to
raise the fallen hopes of the reporter just then. A man stands some
chance if a custom-house falls on him hurriedly, but chance crushed to
earth never rises again, when a giant like this is threatening to make
any easy-chair out of him. I suppose nearly everybody has heard the
funny story about the fat woman and the living skeleton, in a New York
museum, who fell in love with each other. They got along very nicely
for a while, and were as affectionate as if the two had pooled their
issues of flesh, blood, and bone, and divided up so that each tipped
the scale at two hundred and sixty pounds, instead of the whale-like
spouse tipping the scale at four hundred and ninety, while the skeleton
husband did not need any more than a thirty-pound section of the beam
to balance his weight. They were as happy as the sweetest of the
singing birds until one day the husband allowed his heart to stray off
to the Circassian girl, who had been originally born in Ireland, but
had her hair curled for a short side-show engagement. Mr. Skeleton was
making the weightiest kind of love to the fair Circassian for probably
a month before the fat woman was made aware of the fact. Then the
monster that is usually represented as green-eyed, took possession of
her. She kept a careful vigil of all "Skin-and-bones'" doings, as she
called him, until one day she found him during the noon hour, with his
lean arms around the Circassian girl's neck, and his thin lips glued
to her pouting labials of cherry-red. It is impossible to describe
the terrible manner in which she swooped down upon Mr. Skeleton. It
was enough to say that she covered space with alarming rapidity, and
taking her thirty-pound husband by the back of the neck, shook an Irish
jig out of his rattling bones, after which she threw him on the floor
and deliberately sat upon him. The vivacious showman who told this
story said a millstone could not have made a nicer sheet of wall-paper
out of the living skeleton, had one fallen on him, and only for the
buttons on his vest he could have been pushed through the crack under
the door, after the fat woman got through with him. But to come back
to Capt. Bates, the table upon which he had seated himself groaned,
and the little reporter moaned. The fleeting seconds were magnified
into centuries, and the man in the waste-basket afterwards told me
that he felt himself shrinking into something like a homœopathic pill.
The table, however, appeared to stand the pressure a great deal better
than the person under it, and it was sometime before the latter came
to reconcile himself to the safety of his situation. When he did so he
peeped out.

The sight that met his gaze was a curious one. There was the great
towering giantess, of pleasing features and with nothing of a
"fee-fo-fum" air about her, quietly seated in the editor's chair,
taking in the situation as if she had been accustomed to the thing
since Adam's father was bald-headed. And there were the editors and
news-hunters gazing on admiringly, with one or two of them particularly
awe-stricken and wild-eyed. But the background was the thing. It was
a circus in itself. At the doors and windows, upon tables and chairs,
and perched further up on the top of an inoffensive and weak partition,
as high as the giant himself, was a ghastly array of gaping mouths
and bursting eyes in a setting of eager and dirty faces,--inside and
out, high and low, anywhere and everywhere around the institution
within seeing distance were newsboys and boot-blacks till one couldn't
rest; with a dim and distant horizon of more respectable visitors who
had been tempted in by the unusual scene and noise. After the usual
courtesies had been interchanged, the editor remarked:--

"I had a young fellow assigned to interview you, Captain, but I don't
know where he is just now."

"Perhaps he's gone to git an extension ladder," suggested a forward
newsboy.

"No, Skinny," said another; "he told me he was going to get old Stout's
balloon."

At this moment there was a commotion under the table. The giant's foot
had swung back and collided with the waste-basket. To say it was a big
foot would be like calling the pyramid of Cheops a brick-bat or the
Colossus of Rhodes an Italian plaster-cast. They say Chicago girls have
big feet; I don't know this to be a fact, but if they have anything
like the pedal spread of Captain Bates they are entitled to the
credit generally given them of greatness in this way. At any rate the
collision between the foot and the basket caused the recondite reporter
to disclose his whereabouts. The managing editor qualified his conduct
as unbecoming a newspaper man, and the giant himself gently requested
the scribe to come forward.

"You won't make a watch-charm out of me?" queried the reporter,
apprehensively.

"No, no," the giant answered, in an assuring tone.

"Nor a scarf-pin?"

The giant said he wouldn't.

This allayed the reporter's fears, and he came forward from the
atmosphere of "respectfully declined" literature in which he had
been. Capt. Bates's greeting was most kind, and so was that of his
wife. The reporter saw at once there had been no necessity for his
previous timidity, and managing to get within a couple of yards of the
giant's ear, he excused his awkward and silly actions. A pleasant chat
followed, in which the giant and giantess gave brief outlines of their
personal history.

Capt. Bates is now (1879) thirty-five years of age, stands seven feet
eleven and one-half inches in height, and weighs about four hundred and
eighty pounds. He is well put together, handsome in features, genial
in speech, and has the reputation of being a sharp, shrewd man of the
world. Mrs. Bates is thirty-two years old, of the same height as her
husband, although she really seems to be taller, and turns the scales
at about four hundred and twenty pounds. She is thinner in form, but
of excellent physique, is handsome, and has the same frank and smiling
expression on her face as that constantly worn by her husband. She
says she likes the show business, because it brings her in contact
with so many persons. The Captain, though, having been in it about
twelve years, and accumulated considerable means, does not care much
about parading his colossal proportions before the public. It has been
his desire of late years to live in private, quietly on his farm in
Ohio, where the couple have a house built expressly for them, with
doors, windows, furniture, etc., on a giant scale; but until this year
they received so many handsome offers that they forsook the sod for
the sawdust, and the plow for the platform. In 1880, I think it was,
a giant child was born to this enormous couple. The infant weighed
twenty-eight pounds at birth.

After listening patiently to the Captain and his wife as they spoke
of themselves, the little reporter whom I have introduced the reader
to already, suggested as he nearly dislocated his neck in looking up
at the lofty couple, that it would have been a nice thing to be around
when they were making love to each other, but Mrs. Bates said that
was rather a delicate matter to call up, and the reporter subsided.
I could not help thinking, however, that a fellow must feel awful
queer with four hundred and odd pounds of sweetheart upon his knee.
Himalayan hugging going on all the time, and love-sighs that needed a
Jacob's ladder to come from the heart-depths playing above his head
like mountain zephyrs around the Pike's Peak signal service station.
And then when a fellow felt his love away down in his boots, what an
Atlantic cable job it must have been to find out exactly where it was!
And the old garden gate, how it must have been like the gates that
brave Samson shouldered with probably a little extra bracing to it.
And what chewing-gum swopping must have gone on, and ice cream eating,
perhaps a plate as large as a Northland _jokel_ at a time, and no two
spoons in it, either? Oh, but it must have been a heavenly thing!

"You weren't afraid of her big brother, Captain, were you?" friendly
interrogated the reporter.

"Oh, no; not at all," answered the Captain.

"If you sat down on him once you could have sold him for a bundle of
tissue paper, couldn't you?"

"That is not it, my boy," said the Captain. "She didn't have any big
brother."

"Oh, yes, I see."

Then the discourse turned into other channels, intended to be of
special interest to _splacmucks_--as the Brobdignaggians called
ordinary mortals--who are contemplating marriage with giantesses.

"I suppose Mrs. Bates does not wield an ordinary rolling-pin?" the
reporter half queried, addressing himself to Capt. Bates.

"No, indeed," the lady herself replied, laughingly. "I have one made
expressly for my own use, from one of the largest of the Yosemite
Valley trees."

"And you lay it on the old man now and then?" the reporter asked.

"I can answer for that," put in the Captain. "She sometimes brings it
down so heavily on the rear elevation of my skull that it feels as if
I had run against a pile-driver on a drunk or lost my way under the
hammers of a quartz mill."

Mrs. Bates certainly had the physical strength to make a rolling-pin
dance a lively jig in any direction, and if the weapon is anything at
all like what it is here represented to be, Thor's celebrated hammer
will have to go to the hospital as a weak and debilitated concern until
the giants lay their domestic difficulties aside and retire permanently
from active service.

"It must be a gigantic thing when the Captain comes home late at night,
from the lodge, you know, falls through the kitchen window into a pan
of dishes, and after stumbling up stairs goes to bed with his boots
on?" the reporter insinuated, as he looked sorrowfully at the giantess.

"Oh, he never does that," said the lady; and after a minute she added,
"and he'd better not."

The giantess looked knowingly at the giant who looked down at the
floor. My thoughts wreathed themselves fondly around the Yosemite-tree
rolling-pin, and I guess Capt. Bates's thoughts were turned in the same
direction.

"Nobody ever dares to write _billet-doux_ to Mrs. Bates," said the
reporter. "I suppose you know circus and theatrical people are subject
to that sort of thing."

"Not any body that I know of," the Captain answered.

"And I suppose if anybody did they wouldn't care about having you know
it, either?" said the little _Evening Post_ man.

[Illustration: GIANTESS.]

[Illustration: GIANT.]

The Captain made no reply, but a mysterious kind of look crowded into
his eyes, and if anybody around the newspaper office had dared to
entertain a spark of affection for the giantess he could see at once
that he didn't stand the ghost of a show while the giant was around.

"Now, Captain," the tiny and timid reporter remarked, moving to a
distance, "I know you like travelling, and I have one more question
I would like to ask you. It is about hotel accommodations. Don't you
occasionally have to hang your head or feet over the ends of the beds
you encounter?"

This question disgusted the Captain and he rose from the table
indignantly, as did Mrs. Bates from the editorial chair, and doubling
themselves up as they reached the doorway they majestically swept out
of the newspaper office, and stepping into their carriage were driven
away.

Another notable giant is Colonel Routh Goshan, who was born in the city
of Jerusalem, on the 5th day of May, '37, of Arabian parents. He is
the youngest of a family of 15 children, who like himself, father and
mother were all giants. He served with distinction in the Crimean war,
and afterwards in the Mexican army.

Colonel Goshen stands 7 feet 11 inches in his stocking feet, and
measures 75 inches around the chest, 25 inches around the arm, and
wears a No. 11 shoe. His weight is 666 pounds.




CHAPTER XLIV.

THE "TATTOOED TWINS."

  WANTED--The address of some one who can tattoo with Indian ink on
  the person. A. J. H., No. --, --th Street.


This advertisement appeared in a St. Louis Sunday morning paper. The
number and the street are not given for reasons that will at once
present themselves to every intelligent reader. Now there is sometimes
that in an advertisement which attracts one like a pretty girl. A few
lines may furnish a neat little intellectual flirtation, and very
frequently can, like a coy and pretty maiden, keep coaxing a fellow
along until he is perfectly lost in the maze of an affection that he
has neither the tact nor the willingness to try to escape from. As
soon as my eyes lit upon them and the words from the capital W in the
beginning to the period at the end were taken in, I was irrevocably
gone on them. Like the immortal J. N., I immediately lifted the veil
and looked at the suppositious sanctuary behind it, and then saw that
walking art gallery, Capt. Costentenus--known to thousands of people
who saw him travelling as the tattooed man--lying bound hand and foot
upon the earth and surrounded by half a dozen Chinese Tartars, who
were industriously pricking him with pointed instruments, which were
ever and anon dipped into the little basins of blackish-blue liquid.
The scene changed suddenly into a room at No. --, --th Street, and
the Tartars were metamorphosed into a single individual of a decidedly
Caucasian aspect, but with features wrought in that indistinctness
which very frequently is characteristic of the shapes and forms seen
in waking dreams, and the Greek Captain was replaced by an equally
Caucasian subject, who was quietly undergoing the operations of having
his breast tattooed in the most lavish and picturesque manner that
the artist knew how. This idea fastened itself in my mind to such
an extraordinary extent that merely for the purpose of gratifying a
certain instinctive curiosity, as well as to see if my suppositions
were correct, I called at the house indicated next afternoon.

It was a large three-story boarding-house in a very quiet part of the
city, and situated romantically enough to lend the coloring of fact to
the picture I had previously conjured up of the surroundings of the
gentleman who wanted to be tattooed.

A young girl opened the door, who knew nothing of the person who owned
the initials that appeared in the advertisement. I explained that
this was the number and street--it was certainly the right house--and
couldn't she recollect some name that began with an H. No, she could
not. She did not think there was any gentleman boarding in the house
whose name began with an H, and then she recollected that there had
come to the house a few days before a man whose name she did not know.
She would call her mother. "Ma! oh, ma!" rang down through the hallway,
and around behind the staircase, and down into the dining-room, and
up came the assuring response, "I'll be there in a minute." Enter the
landlady with a wet towel on her head, and wiping her fingers on the
corner of her apron. In answer to the daughter's query as to what the
"new gentleman's" name was, she replied, as if she had known him since
the corner-stone of Cheops was laid, that he was Mr. Henneberry. Was
he in? No, not just then, but he would be back in time for dinner,
which would be spread in about half an hour. Somewhat disappointed I
replied that I would take a walk around and call at the end of the
half hour, and was about to leave the door when a voice was heard
on the upper landing, and the words "Hold on!" shouted in a very
peremptory manner brought me to a halt. It was Mr. Henneberry, as I
soon ascertained, when a tall, stout, well-proportioned gentleman, of
handsome features and the prettiest black hair my eyes ever gazed upon,
came down, introduced himself, and invited me in. The object of the
visit was explained in a few words.

"Well," said Mr. Henneberry, "I've been just talking to a gentleman up
in my room, an old sailor, who was crippled some years ago, by falling
from the spar of a South American sailer, so he says, and who appears
to be pretty expert. I rather like the man, and I think he will about
suit me. He needs money, what you don't appear to do, and I think he is
just the very man for what I want. So you see, I think you're a little
late."

I expressed my regret at not having seen the advertisement earlier.

"You see," continued Mr. Henneberry, "I want somebody who will stay
in the house here, and be available at all times during the day. It's
a pretty long job--" and here he checked himself. "No, I don't mean a
long job, because there ain't much of it, but what there is has got to
be done neat and right up to the handle. What sort of work can you do?"

I bared my arm and exhibited a large death-head and cross-bones, an
American eagle, and a bust of George Washington, which I had tattooed
into me, when young and fond and foolish, by a Greek sailor I met in
Milwaukee.

"That's pretty good," said Henneberry. "Where did you learn the
business--if I might call it a business?"

Here I explained that an old sail-maker had taught me the art and
that, having acquired the modus operandi of pricking the color into
the flesh, I was perfectly at home in the business, as I was also an
experienced sketcher.

Further talk followed, in which Mr. Henneberry spoke of tattooing
generally, but made no allusion to the person to be tattooed nor the
extent of the work to be done. At last, as he rose from his chair, as a
gentle reminder that he had said about all he wanted to say, remarked
that I might call again, as he had yet made no definite arrangement
with the man up-stairs and probably would need two.

I went off chagrined, and wished that the old salt with the broken leg,
who had gotten in ahead of me had broken his neck when he fell from
the spar of that South American sailer. I left the door whistling, "We
Parted by the River Side."

A saunter into a shady spot at a safe distance from the house, and a
mind made up to await the outcoming of the successful rival, were the
results of a sudden inspiration. An hour passed, a half more, three
quarters, and it was just about an even couple of hours when out from
the door of No. --, --th Street, limped a middle-aged, bent man, and
he came directly towards me. He passed me by, for about half a block,
when I caught up, and introduced the opening wedge of conversation by
remarking that the weather was a little cooler than folks around there
had been used to for the past month or so.

"Well, yes," was the reply, "but I don't mind it so much. You see I've
hove to in hotter ports than this'll ever be. That sunstroke period was
Injun summer compared with the brimstun climate I've pulled through.
I've been along the African coast when it was hot enough to make a
mill-stun sweat. If they could have just shipped that weather North it
would thaw the North Pole into hot water inside of fifteen minutes."

And then the crippled sailor told of other experiences in other warm
climates, and we talked on in an easy, friendly way for three or four
blocks, when my companion remarked that he was going to take the cars.
I said I was going to do the same, and as soon as we were seated on the
shady side of the conveyance I remarked in a careless, off-hand way:--

"You got ahead of me in that job down at Henneberry's, old man."

He opened his eyes, looked at me half suspiciously, and said: "Then
you're the young man the gentleman was talking about to me. You went to
see him, this afternoon?"

An affirmative was the answer.

"Well, you needn't be so put out. He ain't engaged nobody yet. At least
he ain't closed with me. You see, he's a bit scary. Didn't he tell you
what he wanted?"

"Yes. At least, he left me to infer that he wanted either himself or
somebody else tattooed."

"All over?"

"I thought that was what he meant."

"Well, blast his jib! He made me make all sorts o' promises not to open
my port-hole about it."

"It is a very funny project, isn't it?" asked the reporter.

"Oh, no, not at all. I've been at it afore. I worked at a man up in
Canada for about three months and got him nigh half done, when he
died."

"It's a pretty dangerous operation, this tattooing?" was the next
gentle insinuation.

"Yes, sometimes. But Henneberry can stand it. He looks as if he had
the constitution and he appears to be reckless of the consequences. He
wants to be a show-fellow. He's struck on it, just the same as that
Canada chap who kicked. He's got an idea that there's money in it, and
he's always talkin' about that Grecian chap as is with the circuses,
you know."

"How long will it take to do the job?"

"Well, that I don't exactly know. He talks of havin' two of us at it.
Maybe you're the other fellow, and he's in a stormy hurry about havin'
it finished up, and wants a fellow to stay in the house with him all
the time so that he can take his tattooing just when he feels like
it. Are you good in drawin' dragoons, flyin' fish, elephants, boey
constrictors and sich, young man?"

I replied that I was an adept in delineating animals of the sort named.

"Then I guess he'll want you. I used to be a pretty good drawer myself
afore I fell from that South American, but my hand shakes no little
now; but you just lay the lines, and if I don't stick 'em in as clean
as a copper plate, my name ain't Jack Hogan."

"What will he pay for the job?"

"Well, I asked $600 calc'latin' six months would do it, but he brought
me down to $450 and will pay my board and lodgin'. That ain't bad."

The reporter coincided with Jack Hogan that it appeared to be a pretty
good thing.

"And you don't git your money down either. He wants to be fixed up from
the soles of his feet to near his shirt collar and wristbands, in the
house where he is now, and then he's goin' off to some quiet spot and
have his face and hands and even his ears and the top of his head, for
he's partly bald, done up in some place in the country, or may be out
in some of the Pacific islands, and if it's a bargain between us I'll
have to go with him."

"What catches me," said I, as we got up to leave the car, "is what
Henneberry will do with himself when the finishing touches are all put
on him."

"I can't say, but I s'pose he'll go off to the Sandwich Islands,
marry a nigger squaw, or something of that sort, and come back with a
cock-and-bull story about being captured by savages, and then swing
'round the circle with some circus or other. He's got the money to push
the thing through, and I believe he can stand it. Maybe he'll travel
with old Cos'tenus, and they'll call themselves the tattooed twins."

And the old fellow laughed heartily as he got down carefully from the
platform of the car, and limped away towards the river--perhaps down to
the Bethel Home on the levee.

The foregoing story may be regarded as quite a valuable clue when
associated with a piece of information furnished by an Albany, New
York, journal, whose reporter says the work on Capt. Costentenus's body
pales when compared with that shown by a young man who stopped over in
Albany one evening last summer on his way from Saratoga to his home
in Syracuse. His name is Henry Frumell, and he is but twenty-three
years of age. Although so young, he has, according to his own story,
seen considerable of life. In 1876 he ran away from home, shipped on
a merchant vessel which was trading among the Washington Islands in
South Pacific. While there he underwent the tattooing process, which he
described as the most painful torture ever endured.

"How was it done, and by whom?" he was asked by a reporter.

"By the natives, and with six needles fastened to a stick. Do you see
them (showing the backs of his hands and wrists)? There is a lady's
face on one and a man's on the other. Vermilion red and indigo blue
were used, being pricked in with the needles. Now you see that the work
is executed just as neatly and perfectly as it could possibly be on the
human skin. Well, it took weeks before the design was finished, and it
had to be pricked over a number of times."

"It must have been painful."

"It was. But then I had no choice but to submit."

"Why, were you compelled to undergo the tattooing?"

"Hardly that, but it was wiser to do so."

"How could natives execute the work so perfectly?"

"They used designs given them by a sailor named John Wells, who
belonged to an English vessel. Those on my wrist are not so perfect as
on other portions of my body."

"Did they tattoo you all over?"

"All except a small portion of the left leg above the ankle."

The designs so ineffaceably worked into Frumell's skin are numerous
and beautiful, and some of them so appropriate to the young man's
nationality that it is difficult to imagine how a South Pacific savage,
even with an English sailor for an advisor, should have selected such
fitting pictures. On his back, extending from shoulder to shoulder,
and from the nape of the neck downward was a spirited illustration of
two ships in action. Below it is a snake with protruding fangs and a
scroll with Paul Jones's motto, "Don't tread on me." On his breast is
the national coat of arms worked on the breast of an American eagle
with pinions outspread, and the national colors in its beak. This
covers the entire breast from armpit to armpit, and from the throat
downward. Both arms are literally covered with designs of beasts,
birds, and flowers. The lower limbs are also ornamented, one with the
"Crucifixion of Christ" and the other with the shamrock, harp of Erin,
and other designs. Each kneecap looks like a full-blown rose, with
its vivid coloring and almost perfect imitation of that flower. The
remainder of his body is similarly decorated, over five months being
occupied in the process, and considerable more time being occupied in
healing. His skin has the feeling of the finest velvet, and he says
that he does not experience any evil effects from the immense quantity
of poisonous dye injected into the cuticle. He has tried to eradicate
the designs on his hands by burning, but without avail.




CHAPTER XLV.

IN THE MENAGERIE.


Before entering the menagerie let us look at the huge cannon standing
here outside the dressing-tent. It looks like a ponderous affair, but
investigation shows that it is made of wood. There is a latitudinal
slit at the lower end and a lever. It requires an effort to push the
lever back which indicates that there is a pretty strong spring in
the bottom of the cannon. This is the piece of ordnance that Zazel is
shot out of into a net some distance away. She lies on her back in
the cannon, which is tilted to an angle of about forty-five degrees,
assumes a rigid position, and at the word fire the lever is pulled
back, the spring released, a pistol is fired, and while Zazel is coming
through the air a little cloud of smoke rolls from the cannon's mouth
and is swept away almost before she lands on her back in the net. Sig.
Farini says Zazel is his daughter. Barnum says that when he was in
London where Zazel was doing the cannon act, creating a great furore,
the pretty little French girl came to him crying and asked to be taken
away. She was only getting about six dollars a week for the perilous
work she was doing and Farini was drawing a large salary out of which
she got this pittance.

Sig. Farini also owns the Zulus that have appeared here. As their
manager he is well paid for them, and as the Zulus sleep in the
menagerie tent and have but few wants and he gives them about a dollar
a day--so Barnum says--Cetawayo's subjects are a profitable investment
for him. Zulu Charley on exhibition in New York gets the magnificent
sum of one dollar a day for doing his native war-dance and standing
fire under the numerous eyes that are leveled at him daily. There is a
bit of romance about this black warrior. Among the crowds who thronged
to see the antics of the Zulus at Bunnell's Dime Museum, New York City,
last winter, was an Italian girl named Anita G. Corsini, eighteen
years old, a music teacher by occupation, and the daughter of a Mr.
Corsini who is in business in New York. Zulu Charley won her admiration
and love, and she spent many quarters from her hard-earned savings
to see the dusky object of her affections. Charlie did not repel her
affections and they swore to be true to each other. Mr. Corsini,
however, did not regard with favor the prospect of a marriage between
his daughter and a negro, and did everything in his power to dissuade
her from carrying out her intention. Last week, however, the couple
eloped, but while on their way to a minister's house they were arrested
at the instance of Anita's father.

When the case came up on the following morning in the Jefferson Market
court the father wanted to have the girl sent to Blackwell's Island,
but upon her promise to obey him and leave the Zulu he changed his
mind and took her home. But she again met Charley and, accompanied by
another Zulu named Usikali, and Charles Richards, a white man, they
went to the residence of the Rev. R. O. Page, Brooklyn, and asked to be
married. The minister consented, but he seems to have made a mistake,
addressing all the questions to Usikali instead of to Charley, and
then pronounced them man and wife. On learning his mistake, however,
he performed another ceremony between the right parties. The newly
married couple then went to the museum, where the bridegroom took part
in the usual Zulu war-dance.

The tattooed Greek Costentenus with his picture-covered flesh is always
an object of admiration to the ladies. He says he was tattooed into his
present shape by Chinese Tartars and tells a harrowing story of his
sufferings.

The torturing doesn't seem to have impaired his health or bothered
his appetite any. He is a magnificent looking man physically and
in his unstripped condition is a figure that the eye of an artist
would delight to dwell upon. His only rival is a lady who is now on
exhibition in England and whose breast and upper and lower limbs are
covered with tattooing. I do not know her history, but she probably
submitted to the process to make money out of it. Dr. Lacassagne, a
French physician, has published a book on the habit of tattooing as
practised in the French army. There are professional tattooers in
Paris and Lyons who charge half a franc for each design. Generally
the tattooer has cartoons on paper and reproduces these on the skin
by a mechanical process. Large designs cost a good deal; a big
representation of an Indian holding up the flag of the United States
costs the decorated person fifteen francs. China ink is the coloring
substance preferred, touched up with vermilion. Dr. Lacassagne has
collected one thousand three hundred and thirty-three designs,
tattooed on three hundred and seventy-eight members of the Second
African Battalion or on men under arrest in military prisons. Many
were tattooed on every part of the body except the inner side of the
thighs. Patriotic and religious designs and inscriptions amounted to
ninety-one. There were two hundred and eighty amorous and erotic
devices and three hundred and forty-four works of pure fantasy, such as
ladies driving in a carriage, the horses plunging and servants rushing
to their heads. The great efforts of art are reserved for the surfaces
of the breast and back. The subjects of many of the drawings are best
left undescribed, the imagination of a dissipated soldier being quite
savage in its purity. Among patriotic and religious emblems are cited
two devils, nine theological virtues, six crucifixes, two sisters of
charity, three heads of Prussians, not flattered, and five portraits
of ideal girls of Alsace, with no fewer than thirty-four busts of the
republic. Among animals the lion and the serpent are the favorite
totems. Among flowers the pansy is generally preferred. The æsthetic
classes will be grieved to hear that not a single lily appears, and
there was only one daisy. Among mythological subjects the sirens are
the greatest favorites; next comes Bacchus with his pards, Venus,
Apollo and Cupid.

Gen. Tom Thumb and his agreeable little wife are once more swinging
around the sawdust circle with their old friend Barnum. Gen. Thumb is
the most successful dwarf the world has ever seen. He is rich and as
happy as if he and his wife were as tall as Captain and Mrs. Bates, the
giant and giantess whose immense forms loom up above the crowds that
throng the menagerie tent. I have written elsewhere about captain and
his wife.

"Tummy T'um is ze worst bluff at pokair I ever saw," said Campanini
one day, in a confidential mood; "I ride wiz heem in sefenty-seex from
Pittsburg to Veeling, and he loose me elefen dollars on a pair of
deuces. Ze Generale is a bad man at ze national game."

Campanini, it is well known, is exceedingly economical, and the loss
of eleven dollars he gulped down as well as he could, sinking it
away below the region of his lower register. It was a misfortune he
will never be able to forget entirely, but General Thomas Thumb is
a perfect basilisk to the distinguished tenor. Whenever their shows
exhibit in the same town the singer looks up the dwarf and challenges
him to a game of chance. They last met in St. Louis, a short time
before Campanini's departure for Europe, and oddly enough they settled
on a game of billiards, although probably for prudential reasons on
Campanini's part, as it was impossible for Tom Thumb to win such a
disastrous sum as eleven dollars from the Italian at that manly game.

The game took place in the principal billiard-room of St. Louis, and
it was rendered doubly interesting by the fact that Charles Mapleson,
faultlessly attired, kept the talley. A great crowd was soon attracted
into the room, and the only regret of the two distinguished players was
that they had not charged a general admission, reserved seats extra.

As the game proceeded Campanini grew excited, and the sonorous notes
of his full, rich voice resounded through the corridors of the great
hotel. This, in turn, irritated the General, and his weak, piping
tones, with a tinge of anger in them, contrasted strangely with the
Italian's. The crowd laughed, and Campanini unconsciously exhibited
some of the richest treasures of his stock-in-trade, while the General
grew desperate and absolutely tried to reach across the table.

"Fefteen," shouted Campanini.

Failing in his first effort, the General again tried to accomplish the
impossible.

"Fefteen," Campanini shouted once more.

Just then Charles stepped forward and offered to lift up little Hop-o'
My Thumb.

"Who is playing this game, anyhow?" the General fiercely demanded.

"Fefteen," again shouted Campanini.

"That makes three times the bloody Italian has said 'fefteen,'" Thumb
remarked, regaining his lost temper, and then to Campanini's dismay he
proceeded leisurely to win the game.

"Elefen dollars at pokair, twenty-five cents at billiards--elefen
twenty-five," the tenor kept muttering during the rest of the day,
and that night at the opera Col. Mapleson could not understand why
Campanini was so hoarse.

The "Wild Ape of Borneo" seems to be quite an intelligent animal and
displays first-rate taste in choosing his company. He has learned by
experience that girls were made to be hugged and kissed. Through the
bars of his cage he has seen many a rural lass's waist in the power of
a plough-boy's arm, and watched their lips meet in a smack that more
than discounted the old minstrel joke about the sound resembling the
noise made by a cow pulling her hoof out of the mud. It was no wonder,
then, that when the "wild ape" got out of his cage, while the circus
was exhibiting down South, he forgot all his Borneo breeding, and made
a rush for one of the prettiest girls under the flapping canvas. He
got one arm around her neck and with the paw that was free caught her
chignon and made a desperate effort to obtain a kiss. The girl's escort
was at first terrified and felt like climbing one of the quarter-poles,
all the females in the neighborhood shrieked, and the males began
to dive under their seats. At last a gentleman rushed up with drawn
revolver and fired a shot close to the ape's ear, whereupon he at once
abandoned his osculatory efforts, and made his escape.

[Illustration: PERFORMING ELEPHANTS.]

A curiosity that has been before the public for almost twenty years
is the "two-headed woman," Millie Christine. The fact of the matter
is that there are two women joined together below the waist, but as
they have a single physical organization their manager has seen fit to
call them one. This freak of nature is more astonishing than were the
Siamese twins or the Hungarian sisters. The two-headed woman was born
of slave parents on the plantation of Alexander McCoy near the town of
Whiteville, Columbus County, North Carolina, on July 11, 1851. Prior
to this Millie Christine's mother had given birth to five boys and two
girls, all of ordinary size and without deformity. The "two-headed
woman" will be best understood by reading an extract from a lecture
by Prof. Pancoast of the Jefferson Medical College, Philadelphia. The
Professor examined this curiosity and discussed upon the subject before
a large gathering of medical men. In introducing Millie and Christine,
he said he considered them the most interesting monstrosity of their
class that has ever come under the notice of scientific men, far more
interesting than the Siamese twins. In the midst of his discourse the
young ladies entered, clad in green silk on their two bodies, pretty
little bronze boots on their four feet, white kids on their four hands.
They moved forward like an expanded V, with a crab-like movement that
was not ungraceful. Born back-to-back; the Professor explained that the
natural desire of each to walk face forward had twisted them in their
present position. Separate entities, separate individualities, each
can pursue separate lines of thought and conversation independent of
the other. From habit their appetites call for food and drink at the
same time. All the ills of flesh are not, however, necessarily theirs
in common. One may have the toothache and the other be free from any
ache. But in the examination conducted to-day the Professor discovered
a remarkable development of sensibility since his previous examination,
eight years ago. Touching them on any extreme of the body, on any foot,
for example, both in common were conscious of the touch. Christine has
been and is now the larger and stronger of the two. As children they
used to have little struggles and quarrels for supremacy, but, as
they could not get away from each other, they early concluded that the
best way to get along in their novel path through life was to yield to
each other. Their present happiness and affection for each other is an
example for couples who are yoked together in marital bonds. Sometimes
Christine rolls over Millie in bed without awakening her. Both can
sleep separately. They can stand and walk on their outside legs, but
they prefer to walk on all fours. Millie cannot lift up Christine's
legs, or Christine Millie's legs. Since the Hungarian sisters, there
has been no similar case reported reaching adult life for one hundred
and seventy years. The bond of union between these, which is just above
the bones of the spine, is chiefly cartilaginous, but the spines are
so closely approximated that there is an osseous union between them.
To the question by Professor Pancoast, whether either was engaged to
be married, each denied the soft impeachment with decision, though the
Professor explained that physically there are no serious objections to
the marriage of Her or Them; but morally there was a most decided one.
During the Professor's lecture the Misses Christine Millie and Millie
Christine appeared very much interested in the diagnosis of their
singular condition and evidenced their superior intelligence by their
apt and ready answers.

[Illustration: JUMBO.]

Turning from the human to the zoological branch of the exhibition, we
find the usual assortment of animals from the monkey up to Jumbo, the
elephant, who is only one of a dozen in the possession of his owner.
All performing elephants are well trained, and there is scarcely one
that cannot figure in the ring, responding to the good advice of the
trainer, as the keepers often style themselves. The monkeys are always
a source of amusement, and never loose their drawing power. They are
intelligent animals, but the inclination they have for mischief makes
them quite dangerous. They tell a funny story about an actor out West
who had a pet monkey that he carried with him wherever he went, even
to the theatre. Jocko appeared to be perfectly harmless, and as he
had been at the theatre night after night without making trouble, his
master never dreamed that he would do anything out of the way. Imagine
his surprise therefore when one night as he was in the midst of a
comedy part down came Jocko from the "flies" with a false face he had
filched out of the property-room. His appearance brought down the house
and the play was spoiled.

A traveller in Japan writing about the amusements there tells
us of a very remarkable Sigmian specimen. He says: "There is an
unpretentious show, costing one cent to witness, that is full of
interest to those who have leanings toward Darwin's theory of the
origin of mankind. It has a trained monkey of no mean attainments. The
creature stands upright about three feet high, a well-developed and
intellectual-looking monkey, which will go through all the posturing
known to the famous India-rubber man, and some that that famous
individual could not throw himself into, but the crowning feat that he
has been taught is to dance the Japanese dance to perfection, taking
the exact step, having the correct sway of the body, keeping time
faultlessly, and using his arms and hands in exact accord with the
movements of the feet. It is difficult to realize that a dumb brute can
be educated as completely as this creature is. Oscar Wilde and this
monkey would make a strong partnership in the platform business, for
the monkey is certainly an æsthete--"a darling and a daisy."

If any reader wants to buy a menagerie he can obtain his curiosities
from dealers in New York or Europe. He must have plenty of money
though, as the prices of animals range high, as will be seen in the
following figures: An elephant may be had for $16,000; lion and lioness
with cage, $9,000; sea cow, $8,000; pair of large leopards and two
smaller ditto, $5,000; Australian kangaroo, $2,000; Australian wombat,
$12,000; ostrich, $1,000; royal tiger, $5,000; sacred camel, $2,000;
rare birds, monkeys and lesser animals, including those of American
nativity, $20,000; total, $60,000.

Among the rarest animals, says a writer on this subject, are the
hippopotamus and the gnu, or horned-horse. A first-class hippopotamus
is worth five or six thousand dollars, an elephant from three to six
thousand dollars, a giraffe is worth about three thousand dollars,
a Bengal tiger or tigress will bring two thousand dollars, leopards
vary from six to nine hundred dollars, a hyena is worth about five
hundred dollars, while an ostrich rates at three hundred dollars.
The price-list shows that, although expenses may be heavy, receipts
are proportionately large, and that it does not require many large
beasts to make a good business for one trader. A New York house in
three years sold twenty lions, twelve elephants, six giraffes, four
Bengal tigers, eight leopards, eight hyenas, twelve ostriches and
two hippopotami, being a total business of about $112,000, or over
$37,000 per annum, in the line of larger beasts alone, exclusive
of the smaller show-beasts, such as monkeys, and exclusive also of
birds, which latter items more than double the amount given. Gnus,
or horned-horses, have come into great demand of late years, both
from their oddity and rarity, and are valued at seventeen or eighteen
hundred dollars apiece. An elephant is always in demand, and sells,
whether it be male or female, large or small, "trick" or otherwise.
Ostriches, though heavy eaters, are not very expensive, as they have
cast-iron stomachs and digest stone, glass, iron, or almost anything
else that one chooses to give them, though they are judges of good
meat when they get it. They are not the only creatures that eat glass.
Heller or Houdin--I forget which of these magicians--found a taste
among Oriental jugglers for pounded glass, which they ate in large
quantities. A trial by the Caucasian trickster developed the fact that
glass was not only not injurious when taken in reasonable doses, but
that it served as an appetizer, stimulating the stomach to hunger after
food. There are two species of ostrich known to the trade, the black
and the gray; both are very strong, fleet, and practically untamable.
Lions, tigers and leopards form constituent attractions of almost all
menageries, and are too familiar to need description. It may be here
remembered, however, that people who deal with these creatures find
that there is comparatively little danger to themselves to be dreaded
from either lions or lionesses. These animals never attack any human
being, save when excessively hungry; and when enraged, from any cause,
always show such visible signs as put their keepers on their guard;
whereas, the opposite of these statements is true in regard to tigers
and leopards--the latter especially, which are regarded by those in the
trade as the most dangerous, cruel and treacherous of all the beasts
with which they are brought in contact. American lions or jaguars, and
American or Brazilian tigers are very fierce, untamable and strong,
although inferior in size to the lion or tiger proper. Of monkeys
and baboons little more than has already been said need be repeated
here. There are about one hundred and fifty different species of these
creatures, the most intelligent of which is the ringtailed monkey, and
the most stupid, that variety known as the lion monkey, from its being
gifted, instead of brains, with a long mane. The variety of deer and
antelope are numerous, and always find ready purchasers; the genuine
antelope will bring two or three hundred dollars in the market.

A show of wild animals is one thing, and a very good thing sometimes;
but the same number of wild beasts when not in show--but merely in
winter quarters or out and awaiting sale, presents a different, and,
sometimes, a curious spectacle. Thus in a certain back yard in the city
of New York, as singular a sight is presented to the lover of animal
life as is afforded probably in the range of the whole world. You enter
by a low doorway, and at first glance you see only a number of boxes,
with iron bars in front--amateur cages in fact--and arranged alongside
of each other, just as cases may be, without the slightest order or
general arrangement. If you look a second time at these boxes you will
be made aware of the fact that they are inhabited by certain moving
animals; for pairs of bright eyes will gleam out upon you through the
iron bars and occasional switching of some beastly tails against the
sides of the cages will become audible, as will every now and then
a deep smothered roar. Inspecting the box-cages or cage-boxes, more
closely you will see, further, that one of them contains a three-year
old lion, just getting his young moustache, or, what answers the same
purpose to a lion--his mane. Next box to this you will find a lioness,
about the same age as her mate, a fine specimen of African female,
who seems very much attached to a dog that shares her cage with her
in perfect harmony, at least so far as the lioness is concerned, for
she does all she can to live at peace with the dog, yielding to his
wishes in all particulars, giving up her meat whenever he takes a fancy
to it, and getting out of his way whenever he wishes to walk about,
although doggy does not seem to be a very amiable partner, and every
now and then gives the lioness a bit of his mind by biting her in
the ear. A little beyond this strange couple lie two more boxes--the
upper one containing a pair of young hunting leopards, as playful
as young kittens, which spend their time in calling to the cats of
the neighborhood, the lower one being the scene of the imprisonment
of a full-grown, very handsome, very cross leopardess, who is always
snarling and seeking whom or what she may devour. This latter beast has
a special antipathy to a young lad who has charge of her, and tries
half a dozen times a day to make mince-meat of him. On the opposite
side are a number of boxes, containing monkeys of various species and
baboons. One of these monkeys is a jovial female, christened Victoria,
and is one of the most expert pickpockets in New York, which is saying
a great deal. Vic can relieve a visitor of his watch and chain or
pocket-book in a manner most refreshing to a monkey and moralist to
witness, and although as ugly as sin is as quick as lightning. Next
door to this kleptomaniac ape is a happy family of monkeys--father,
mother and baby--who live together lively as clams at the turn of tide.
On the ground, at a little distance, lies another box, which contains a
monster baboon. This fellow is called Jonas, and is, without exception,
the ugliest individual in existence to which the Almighty has ever
given a shape--such as it is. These big apes are frequently palmed off
on the public for gorillas; they are strong as giants, gentle as lambs,
and can be taught tricks like dogs. As in the case of canines, severity
and kindness are resorted to in training them. Prof. Harry Parker, in
speaking to me about educating his dogs, said he rarely used the whip
upon them, but endeavored, by properly feeding and speaking kind words
to them, to make them obedient to his command, still the whip must be
used. Dogs that hop around on two feet have their little limbs lashed
from under them until they almost feel the sting of the rawhide in the
tone of the trainer's voice. Clown dogs, which have recently been
prominent features of circuses and variety shows, are taught to go
through every article that is put down upon the floor by their masters;
that is why they squirm through a hoop, run under and overturn chairs,
pass under bundles and upset the leaping basket that is used in dog
circuses. Prof. Parker and Prof. Willis Cobb, I may here remark, are
the best dog-trainers in the country, and both have large and fine
collections of educated canines.

In the rear portion of the yard which we have been visiting is an
inclosure, in which three or four horned horses or ponies, called
gnus, are digesting their rations; next to these is a case in which
is confined a fretful porcupine, who shows his bristles on the least
provocation, and sometimes when there is no insult meant at all. The
catalogue of cages or boxes is completed by that in which is held in
duress a Brazilian tiger of the fiercest possible description, who does
nothing but glare upon you and want to eat you. The meat-eaters in the
collection are fed only once a day--at noon--and cost about a dollar
per day to feed; the fruit-eaters, like the elephant, eat all the time,
as fancy prompts; while the vegetarians, like the monkeys, take their
three square meals a day. As a rule, all animals enjoy a better average
of health than man, because they have no acquired tastes or dissipated
habits. The elephant lives for centuries; the parrot is a centenarian,
while the lion lives but twenty years or so. On the whole, the average
life of man is greater than that of the majority of the so-called
beasts, though their average of health exceeds his.

Wax-works, of one kind or other, enter into the display made in the
menagerie tent; but the figures all seem broken or enfeebled by long
usage, and instead of being attractive, many of them are repulsive.
How different from Madame Tussaud's exhibition--the prototype of all
the efforts that have been made in the wax-work line! A correspondent
who visited this display many years ago, when the display had a
world-wide fame, wrote:--

"Madame Tussaud's famous exhibition of wax statuary and works in
wax afforded me a very entertaining evening's occupation. Here are
full-length portraits in wax of all the notables of the world; Queen
Victoria, Prince Albert, the royal children, George III., Queen
Charlotte, George IV., William IV., George II., Louis XIV., Emperor
Louis Napoleon and his empress in their bridal costume, Henry VIII.,
Cardinal Wolsey, all the present sovereigns of Europe, Kossuth, Gen.
Tom Thumb, etc., numbering nearly two hundred figures in all, so
artistically arranged and so well executed that the effect upon the
visitor on entering is the same as on coming into a grand drawing-room
filled with noble ladies and gentlemen. So perfect is everything that
you look to hear the figures speak, and can hardly convince yourself
that they do not move.

"The second room of Madame Tussaud's exhibition is called the Robe
Room, which contains the figure of George IV. wearing the order of
the Garter. This robe was worn by his majesty in the procession to
Westminster Abbey, at his coronation. To the right of this is the robe
the same monarch wore at the opening of Parliament, and on the left
the robe worn by the King in returning to Westminster Abbey after the
coronation. The cost of these three robes was about $90,000. The third
room of the exhibition is called the Golden Chamber, and contains
relics of the Emperor Napoleon, among which is the camp bedstead used
by Napoleon during his seven years at St. Helena, with the mattress
and pillow on which he died; the coronation robe of Napoleon and the
robe of the Empress Josephine; the celebrated flag of Elba; the sword
worn by the Emperor during his campaign in Egypt, and many other relics
of him. In another room is the carriage in which Napoleon made the
campaign of Russia, and which was captured on the evening of the battle
of Waterloo; also the carriage he used at St. Helena, in which, of
course, I sat down, according to custom.

"In another room are many relics of the French Revolution, among which
are the instruments by which the unfortunate Louis XIV. was beheaded,
as also Robespierre and others. These are but a few of the many curious
and interesting objects to be seen at this exceedingly entertaining
exhibition; and I passed several hours here, quite lost in the
examination of the collection and the recollections which the various
articles awakened."

       *       *       *       *       *

The menagerie, no matter how small or how extensive it may be, always
has much within its cages and lying around under its canvas to interest
young and old alike. It is like a volume of natural history that may be
forever studied without exhausting the interest that attaches to it,
and the knowledge contained in it. Thrown down after a single perusal,
the book is picked up again and again, and each time its pictures and
pages seem as fresh and entertaining as they were in the beginning.
So, too, the collection of curiosities, that now-a-days form a very
important part of every tent-show, never loses its attraction for
the public. Gray-haired men who in boyhood looked, open-mouthed and
astonished, into the den of lions, still find the same pleasure in
contemplating these wonderful beasts from a safe distance, and take
delight in making their children acquainted with them. The tangled
forests and matted jungles of new regions are constantly giving up new
specimens of wild animal life; and with the old reliable attractions
still plentiful, and startling novelties occasionally coming to the
surface, there is every reason to believe that the menagerie will
retain its present hold upon the hearts of the people, and last as long
as there is canvas in the world to cover one or color enough to fill an
ordinary stand of bills.

Now we have seen about all there is to see. Passing out and by the
side-show blower with his fat woman and lean man, his glass blower and
Irish Circassian girls, his juggler, and the heartless band of music
he has playing at one end of his dirty tent; we move down the street,
the sound of the side-show music dies out, the canvas fades behind the
house-tops, and we have left the show world with all its sunshine and
shadow, its laughter and tears.

[Illustration: CURTAIN.]




Transcriber's Notes


The original text contained many typographical errors, including
missing periods and missing, unbalanced, or inconsistent single and
double quotation marks. The Transcribers attempted to correct the
simple ones, but many remain. Some of the more obvious unchanged errors
are listed below.

Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a
predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not
changed. Spelling and punctuation in passages containing dialect or
French have not been changed.

Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained.

Repeatedly inconsistent hyphenation and spelling, such as "make up"
and "make-up", "boquets" and "bouquets", and "fairy-land" and
"fairyland", have been retained.

The Table of Contents and List of Illustrations refer to "Herman,"
while the referenced pages of text spell the name as "Hermann." They
also do not hyphenate compound words that are hyphenated on the
referenced pages. These differences have not been changed here.

Illustrations have been repositioned between paragraphs, so the page
references in the List of Illustrations are only approximate in this
eBook. In versions that support links, the links in that list lead
directly to the corresponding illustrations.

Page 29: "Obarammergan" was printed that way; today, the town's name
is spelled "Oberammergau".

Page 45: "--_See_ p. 18." was printed at the bottom of the page in
the area normally used for footnotes, but it has no footnote notation
and is not referenced in the text. Page 18 contains an illustration
captioned "STAGE OF A MODERN THEATRE." As the appropriate position of
the reference could not be determined, it has been removed from the
text but mentioned here.

Page 50: "hair-brained" was printed that way.

Page 95: Closing quotation mark added after "and look your part."

Page 130: "pacing three time" was printed in the singular.

Page 132: "Such an accident happened him" was printed that way.

Page 186: "Every time the slits in the towel came opposite the slits in
the canvas the light shines through and the silver dance upon the lake
or river." was printed that way.

Page 186: "outer ruin" was printed that way.

Page 269: "D'Oyley Carte planks down $12,000" was printed that way.

Page 317: "meets a night of the quill" may be a typographical error
for "knight".

Page 347: "too awfully too too for anything" was printed that way.

Page 353: "café, which he run" was printed that way.

Page 391: "palmy days" was printed that way.

Page 463: "don't you forget it?" was printed with the question mark.

Page 477: "At least she learned" was printed that way.

Page 531: "The miner's, rugged and brown," was printed with the
apostrophe.

Page 544: "capacity for adopting oneself" was printed that way.

Page 561: "so I gave up thar trial" was printed that way.

Page 564 (originally 565): The illustration lacks a caption, but in the
List of Illustrations, it is "LEAPING".

Page 593: "Bacchus with his pards, Venus" was printed that way.

Page 600: "Sigmian specimen" was printed that way.





End of Project Gutenberg's Theatrical and Circus Life, by John J. Jennings